


Draw a Line from Your Heart to Mine

by CreateImagineWrite



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Auror Harry, Auror Ron, Eventual Fluff, Kidnapping, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Potions Master Draco Malfoy, Ron's POV, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2018-02-04
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:01:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 40,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreateImagineWrite/pseuds/CreateImagineWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being Harry Potter's best friend isn't always fame and beating off raving fans. It's also the anxiety of hearing your best mate's been cursed by another Dark Lord, or love potioned by some crazy woman. Or having his boyfriend you knew nothing about turn up on the Burrow's doorstep. Crime/Mystery fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Most Unexpected

Ron was a different person than he had been in Hogwarts. Of course, he still liked the occasional glass of Firewhisky (out of sight of his lovely but very opinionated wife, of course), and Quidditch, and his hatred of potions in general hadn’t dimmed in the slightest, but his debilitating jealousy and such had faded over the years. ‘Course, jealousy tended to stem from discontent, and he was the farthest from discontent as one could be, happily married and loving life. 

Hermione was still the bookworm she’d always been, cheerfully delving into wizarding law and passionately defending the rights of magical creatures the world over. They had two lovely, if very rambunctious, children, Hugo and Rose, whom he swore were going to get into more trouble than Fred and George combined, especially if Fred Mark II had anything to say about it. He was a successful Auror, working side by side with Harry, and he was respected for his strategic skills and spellwork. He felt more confident and sure of himself, and just as accomplished as his five older brothers.

And his jealousy of Harry… well, that had faded sometime after the wards had been sabotaged outside Grimmauld place and his best mate had spent three days in the house of some crazy woman who believed she was his true love. The love potion she’d used had been the very illegal kind, and it had taken a while for Harry to come back to himself, in which time his marriage with Ginny – less than a year old – had been reduced to tatters. 

It was hard to be jealous of someone when their life was so bloody _difficult_ all the time. He took a sip of his Firewhisky (which he’d charmed to look like water, Hermione was really quite opinionated about the vices of drinking, she was), and glanced around the Burrow. Renovated in the aftermath of the War, the inside of the house was nearly doubled in size, making room for the massive crowd of redheads that had flocked there for their weekly Sunday dinner. A bushy brown head and a ponytail of black braids were the only non-ginger heads of hair in the room, sported by Hermione and a very pregnant Angelina. A few of the grandchildren had more varied hair color, but he had a feeling that his two and his nephew Fred Jr. had run off somewhere with Bill and Fleur’s three. Percy’s two predictably well-behaved ginger children were calmly playing and reading in the corner. He had no idea how his brother had managed to practically recreate himself. Maybe he’d used the Gemino curse.

Harry’s head of messy dark hair was decidedly absent in the throng.

Ron sighed. He knew that Harry got tired of people sometimes, but it couldn’t hurt for him to spend some time with the family. It’s not like they cared too much about his and Ginny’s divorce. His sister was happily dating Dean Thomas, last he’d checked, and Harry had been practically a brother far before he became a brother-in-law. He couldn’t even _remember_ the last time he’d seen his best mate outside of work, now that he thought of it. 

The doorbell suddenly clanged (it had used to ring, but the twins had been playing with it years ago and it had never quite recovered), interrupting him from his thoughts, and he smiled. “It’s probably Harry,” he told his father, who had migrated to the edges of the group as well. “’Bout time that scrawny git showed up around here. I’ll get it.”

He navigated his way past a table practically groaning under the weight of his mother’s food, and threw the door open. “Hey, mate, long time no…” He trailed off, staring. That was not Harry, that was as far from Harry as being not-Harry got.

“Malfoy?” Ron choked out, because, yes, Draco Malfoy was standing on the doorstep of the Burrow. 

“Weasley,” the blond aristocrat greeted him politely, and the sense of wrongness increased when the man didn’t even sneer. “I know, I shouldn’t be here, but…” he trailed off, and then suddenly ran a hand through his hair. The nervous gesture threw Ron off balance.

“Merlin, what on earth are you _doing_ here?”

“I…” He trailed off again, and then seemed to steel himself. “I need to know. Is Harry here?”

Ron blinked. Surely he was hallucinating. Sure, they weren’t mortal enemies anymore, it was hard to be when Malfoy was the Potions Master who supplied most of the potion stores in Mungos _and_ the Auror Healing department, but… “No, he’s not, but why…”

Ron had two seconds to recognize that something was very wrong before the pureblood’s mask shattered. 

“You’re sure? He’s…” The blond’s expression was fearful, hands fisting at his sides, a stark contrast to the normally emotionless façade. 

Someone came up behind Ron. “Hello, what’s going on, has Harry… Jesus!” George stared over his brother’s shoulder at the least likely person he’d expected to see. “What on earth are _you_ doing here?!”

The blond took a step back. “I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t be here. I’m sorry.” His hand shook as he brought it up to cover his mouth.

Ron took a step forward with him, the sense of wrongness settling like a shackle around his heart. “Malfoy… what’s wrong?” – And there was a phrase he’d never expected to utter. – “Why are you looking for Harry?”

“I… he was supposed to meet me. We had… he was supposed to meet me, and he didn’t show up, and he never doesn’t show up, and I went to his house, but there’s no one there, and I thought, maybe he was here, because there looked like, oh God, oh God…” The man was babbling, so far from the normally stoic, cold calmness Ron was used to seeing.

George took the initiative, grabbed Malfoy around the elbow and drew him through the doorway. “Come on.”

“I can’t,” the blond tried to retreat, somewhere between panic and politeness. “I can’t intrude on your…”

“You’re not going anywhere until you’ve told us what’s going on with Harry,” George said sternly, and stubbornly dragged the least expected person through the hallway, past a group of suddenly silent, staring Weasleys and forcibly shoved him into an armchair. 

“Merlin’s beard!” Mr. Weasley managed.

“Arthur! Not in front of the chil – Merlin’s beard!” Molly bustled into the room and stopped short at the sight of the now more pale than usual Malfoy sitting in her living room. 

“I’ll just go,” the blond managed, voice unsteady. “I shouldn’t have…”

“He was looking for Harry,” Ron interrupted him.

Hermione suddenly materialized at his side, and only his being accustomed to her Apparition-like appearances allowed him not to flinch. “Why on earth are _you_ looking for Harry?”

“Granger… sorry, Weasley,” Malfoy corrected himself, automatically straightening his posture. “I… I…” His gaze flitted around the room, from face to face, and Ron thought he’d never seen someone look so uncomfortable and nervous. The man’s hands were shaking. 

A mug was suddenly shoved into the unexpected visitor’s grasp, and Malfoy had to scrabble not to drop it. “I… thank you,” he stuttered, staring at Molly.

Ron’s mother tutted. “I’ve been a mother for over thirty years, young man, I can tell when someone needs a soothing cup of tea. Now why don’t you tell us what’s going on?”

Malfoy’s eyes did one more sweep of the room before settling on the cup of tea, which he seemed to think was safe ground. “I… I was supposed to meet Harry tonight.”

“Why on earth would you be meeting Harry?” someone voiced the very thought reeling through Ron’s head.

The former Slytherin looked up, expression stricken. “I… We… He didn’t want to tell you,” he suddenly blurted. His face went even whiter than before, and words continued spilling out of his mouth like a dam had broken. “He was afraid of how you’d react. It’s my fault. I’ve been horrible, and I was under the influence of my father, but I know that’s no excuse, and I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry, but he still didn’t want to…”

Arthur clamped a hand down on the blond’s shoulder. “Slow down.” 

Malfoy’s grip on the mug tightened, knuckles whitening, and he took a deep breath. “I was…” The words didn’t seem to want to come out of his mouth. “I was… we were…” He took another deep breath, and suddenly his emotionless Malfoy mask seemed to slide back into place. “We had a date.”

Every Weasley in the room blinked rather rapidly.

“What?” Ron choked out, hearing the sentiment spoken by many of his family. The fearful House Elf look suddenly returned. 

“He… he didn’t want to tell you yet. He didn’t know how, and I didn’t want him to be unhappy and we decided, oh Salazar, we decided not to. But he was going to, and I’m so sorry, and…” His grip on the mug had tightened to the point Ron feared for the porcelain’s continued survival. “It was our six month anniversary,” he suddenly blurted out again, and this inability of his to be calm struck at Ron like a blow. 

“It was our six month anniversary,” Malfoy repeated, and his voice went distant, oblivious to the collective shock of everyone in the room. Even the children looked confused. “I had it all planned. All of it. I was… I was going to propose.” His voice cracked painfully, and one of his hands freed itself from his mug to search through his robe pocket. Ron had a sudden urge to reach for his wand, but before he’d had the chance, the blond pulled out, not a weapon, but an innocent, all too recognizable, black velvet box. He set it carefully on the coffee table, incongruous next to discarded Exploding Snap cards and plates of half-eaten food. “I was going to propose,” he whispered, and then the teacup tipped from his fingers as he buried his face in his hands.

The shattering of the glass on the floor went unnoticed as he continued. “I thought he’d stood me up at first. But he’d never done that before, he always sent a Patronus if something came up, or an owl if he was angry with me, sent a Howler once in the middle of a restaurant when he was _really_ mad. He doesn’t run from his problems – That’s not like him!” 

Ron blinked rapidly, mouth opening and closing. He remembered the story about the Howler, it had ended up in the Daily Prophet, there’d been a bunch of speculation about who Malfoy’s mysterious (and very angry) lover had been. 

“I went to Grimmauld place, but he wasn’t there, and there was furniture turned over and floo powder spilled on the floor, and I couldn’t find Kreacher, and thought Harry’d be here. I _hoped_ he’d be here! He was saying that you were going to drag him to a family dinner one of these times if he didn’t show up on his own, and I thought… But… but if he’s not here…” He lifted his face from his hands, and Ron had to register the fact there were _tears_ , before someone shouted “Grimmauld Place!” and he turned just in time to see George disappear in a flash of green light.

“Daddy, what’s going on?” a small voice asked, and he looked down as Rose tugged on his sleeve.

“And who’s that man?” Hugo added, pointing at Malfoy with all the curiosity of a five year old boy.

“That’s, er, that’s…” It was with a sense of dawning horror that the only answer that came to mind was ‘ _This is your Uncle Harry’s boyfriend_.’ How was this his _life_?

He resorted to patting his daughter on the head wordlessly, as he, with a sense of detachment, saw his mother pick up what was apparently Harry’s engagement ring and open the box.

Molly’s eyes filled with tears. “Six months,” she whispered, “why would he not tell us?” She handed the open box back to Malfoy, and Ron had time to see a simple silver band, studded with three small diamonds, not at all ostentatious and exactly to Harry’s taste, before it was closed again.

Hermione’s hand slid into his own just as George’s face appeared in the flames, mouth set in a grim line. “There was definitely a struggle, I found Harry’s wand under the couch.”

And, with a sense of déjà vu, thinking back to the many, many times when the Saviour of the Wizarding World had been kidnapped, or attacked, or cursed by Death Eeater sympathizers, Ron wondered how he had ever felt jealous of Harry Potter.

~>~>~>

Six hours later, Grimmauld place was overrun by Aurors, several members of the Weasley family standing in Harry’s kitchen, Malfoy looking pale and lost among them. Fleur and Hermione had left to go put the children to bed, leaving the men to stand silent vigil, waiting to hear anything. Ron spun Harry’s wand absently in his hand. They’d already cast _Priori Incantato_ on it, but all it had revealed was a stunning spell that had obviously never hit its mark, and a series of simple household spells before that, nothing telling. 

And the floo powder scattered on the floor had proved to be useless as well, knocked over in the fight and not used to travel. A check of the Floo Registry had proved that George had been the first person to use Grimmauld Place’s Floo network that day. Kreacher was, indeed, missing, and some House Elf blood had been found in the carpet, so the Elf had likely put up a fight as well. He’d always been rather feisty for such an ancient thing.

The wards hadn’t been tampered with either. They were the strongest that could be managed, rivalling even Hogwart’s defenses, and even then, not one of the alarms had gone off. Nothing triggered, no warnings, no S.O.S. The Security Out-call Spell would’ve gone off with a single word spoken by Harry; it was a recent ward-type created in the wake of Voldemort’s defeat that would send pre-made Patronuses out to relatives and friends. Harry had set that particular ward up after his last kidnapping, and inspection had proven that it, along with all the others, was completely unaffected. 

What could have happened so quickly that Harry couldn’t trigger his wards, even though he had time to cast a stunning spell? Ron stared at the wand in his hands and wished it held more answers. Then Hermione entered the room, brushing soot from her shoulders, and he wrapped an arm around her waist.

“Molly’s watching the kids,” she told him, even her murmur loud in the tense silence of the kitchen. “We’re to tell her immediately if anything’s found.”

“When,” Malfoy said suddenly, and they all looked up.

“ _When_ something’s found,” he continued, voice quiet but firm.

The silence following that statement was very loud. 

Charlie eventually cleared his throat. _Braver man than I_ , Ron thought. “So… six months, eh, Malfoy?”

“Yes,” the blond said quietly, absently passing the black jewelry box from hand to hand. He didn’t seem inclined to say more. His mask was back, and Ron found it irritating. He looked far too much like the bullying Slytherin they had encountered in their Hogwarts years, save for the endless nervous fidgeting.

Hermione was next to speak up. “How did you two…” She left the end of the sentence open, but her meaning was clear: _get together? Stop being enemies? Start, apparently, wanting to get married_?

The pureblood raised his head and cast her a wry smile. “He saved my life.”

Yep, that was definitely Harry. 

“How?” Hermione pressed.

Malfoy looked hesitant for a second, glancing around at the Weasleys in the room. It wasn’t quite as daunting as his arrival in the sitting room, Ron supposed. Percy and his family had gone home, instructing the others to inform them if – _when_ – there was news, since Percy and Harry had never been that close. Only Hermione remained of the wives, and Arthur had gone to the Ministry to speak with various people. Ginny hadn’t been at the family dinner in the first place, begging off because of a date with Dean, and they hadn’t been able to contact her yet. That left Bill, Charlie, George, Hermione and Ron. Five people, compared to the original nineteen, if you included grandchildren. 

“I had a bit of a potions accident,” Malfoy began, nervous fidgeting increasing. Ron suddenly realized that the jewelry box in the man’s hands was spinning without touching his fingers at all. “My magic has been… unpredictable since the war. It reacted badly with a Blood-Replenishing Potion.”

Hermione made a disapproving sound, which Ron didn’t understand in the slightest.

“I shouldn’t have been working with it while I was angry about something,” Malfoy seemed to oblige her, “but Harry turned up at just the right time and managed to cast a rather powerful shield charm before the reaction killed us both.” 

“What kind of reaction was it?”

“ _Sentiens igni_.”

“But that would mean…” Hermione began, lighting up like she tended to do when confronted with an interesting theory.

Before Ron could wonder what on earth _sentiens igni_ was, his wife was interrupted by another person entering the room.

“Kingsley!” he greeted the Minister of Magic with a firm handshake. “What are you doing here?”

“Damage control,” the dark-skinned man sighed, “Harry’s disappearances always tend to leave a lot of wreckage in their wake.” 

“Have they found anything?” Hermione asked, accepting the Minister’s one-armed hug.

“Nothing, unfortunately. They’ve determined that he was transported by unregistered portkey, but it was a powerfully well-made one, there’s absolutely no trace to follow. And the wards are completely untouch… Merlin!” Kingsley finally noticed Malfoy in the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”

There was a moment of awkward silence, then Charlie rolled his eyes and said, bluntly, “He’s Harry’s boyfriend.”

_Definitely a braver man than I_ , Ron thought. It was kind of sad, really, to find he still wasn’t the most Gryffindor of his brothers, despite the fact he’d fought off Voldemort. Then again, he hadn’t decided to make dragon-taming his career either.

Kingsley blinked, and then sighed, clapping Malfoy on the shoulder. “Doesn’t make things easy for himself, does he?” 

“Not in the slightest,” the pureblood managed faintly, and Ron had a moment to wonder what it felt like to have your sexuality outed to the most politically powerful wizard in Britain.

“Well, my only advice to you is to go home and get some rest. It’s far past midnight,” Kingsley stated, frowning. “We’re calling in some Unspeakables, and we’ll need to determine if Harry has encountered anyone who harbored ill will towards him recently, but knowing Harry… well, that likely won’t determine anything. Hopefully we’ll have some answers in the morning.”

The group nodded as a whole, and Ron felt a sickening feeling settling in his stomach as he realized that once again, his best mate was missing and there was little he could do. He pulled Hermione closer, bid his brothers goodnight and gave Malfoy a tight nod, letting her Disapparate them both.

~>~>~>

After Flooing mum and the others, and a probably inadequate teeth-brushing, Ron pulled on a pair of pajama pants and fell into bed, Hermione curled into his side. 

His wife linked her fingers with his and spoke quietly, “The fact Harry didn’t tell us… about Malfoy.”

Ron rubbed small circles into the back of her hand with his thumb. “I… I can see why he didn’t,” he frowned. “I don’t know if it’s sunk in.” He tried it out on his tongue. “Harry, dating Malfoy.” A bit of anger pulled at his voice, but most of his emotions were sunk in worry, wondering if his best mate was okay.

“He seemed… to care?” Hermione said, hesitantly.

Ron snorted. “He had an _engagement ring_. I don’t know if he could _not_ care.”

“Unless he’s doing it for the fame,” she pointed out.

The thought seemed wrong in Ron’s head. Maybe, if he applied it to the Slytherin they knew at Hogwarts, but, seeing Malfoy, half stuttering and worried and barely thinking about the words he was saying, he couldn’t. “I don’t think so, I don’t think he’s like he was… before.”

“Do you think we could get used to it?”

“If it makes Harry happy,” Ron said honestly, “He deserves to be happy for once.”

“You’re taking it rather well,” Hermione said, a hint of a smile in her voice.

“It’s all a bit pointless, isn’t it? Being angry when Harry’s not even here to be angry with,” Ron said. “I sort of wish he’d told us he was gay, at least. It’s not like we would’ve judged him. Charlie’s dated at least six guys in the past three months.”

“Charlie’s gay?” Hermione sounded surprised.

Ron turned to her, blinking in the half-darkness of their bedroom. “You didn’t know that?”

“I’m fairly certain it never came up!” she said, sounding a little miffed. 

He frowned. “If I didn’t tell you…”

“You probably didn’t tell Harry either,” Hermione reproached. “So how could he know you were okay with it?”

“He… couldn’t,” Ron realized. Jesus, how long had Harry been keeping that one a secret, then? And what about Ginny? 

“And the fact it’s Malfoy…” Hermione pointed out. “I guess it’ll be Draco, eventually. If they’re going to get married and everything.”

The thought was as foreign as a phoenix turning into water instead of flame. “Harry Malfoy,” he tried, and then blanched at the very idea.

Hermione giggled. “That sounds…”

“Bloody hell,” Ron moaned. “I am _never_ going to say that ever again.”

There was silence for a moment. Then, “You might not have to,” Hermione said, voice hitching, “If Harry doesn’t…”

Ron pulled her close, pressing his lips to her forehead. “He’ll be fine, we’ll find him, and everything will be fine. Harry always pulls through. Boy Who Lived Twice and all that.”

“I just hope there’s a ‘Thrice’,” Hermione murmured, burying her face in his shoulder. 

“I hope so too.”

There was silence for a bit, and Ron closed his eyes, wondering if he’d even be able to sleep. His best friend was missing with no real clues as to where he’d been taken, he was apparently dating one of their childhood rivals, and had been for six months, and there had been an engagement ring. He wanted to strangle and hug Harry all at once. _Hug first, strangle later_ , Ron decided. 

He wrapped his arms tightly around his wife, heart twisting painfully. _Just so long as he’s actually here so I can do both._  



	2. Honourable Action

Ron stumbled out of one of the Floos in the Atrium, tiredly attempting to brush the soot from his Auror robes. He was running on maybe four hours of sleep and a cup of exceptionally strong tea, but he didn’t think he could have slept any longer anyways. His mind kept drifting to Harry’s disappearance, and he found that he couldn’t just take the leave Head Auror Robbards had offered him, or rather, ordered him to take. He needed to be doing something, anything, to take his mind off the fact that Harry had once again disappeared.

He made his way into a lift, batting irritably at an over-affectionate memo zooming around his head. Who was sending inter-departmental love letters anyways? They were always so _annoying_. Thankfully for whoever sent it, this one jaunted off before he could summon the energy to Incendio it, and he made it down to the Auror levels in peace. 

“You should be on leave,” their receptionist, Anna, told him sternly. Or well, mostly in peace.

He gave her a sheepish shrug and continued past her desk towards his office. He didn’t realize until he got to the office door and opened it that he’d half expected Harry to be sitting at his desk, there bright and early as usual with his usual sunny morning-person grin. The twist of anger and worry in his midsection twisted a bit tighter as he saw the messy, completely empty desk. _Godric_ , he thought, _I miss him already_. 

He turned deliberately away from Harry’s half of the office and sat in his own, pulling a case report towards him and waiting for Robbards to come yell at him. 

It didn’t take long, maybe ten minutes. Then, “Weasley,” the Head Auror thundered, “I thought I told you to take the week off.”

“Is that going to help bring Harry back, Sir?” Ron said easily, not looking up from his report. He’d, sadly, had this conversation before.

Robbards was silent for a moment, and then sighed. “You’re a partner-less Auror, Weasley. You know the protocol.”

Ron was perfectly aware of the protocol. It was like the buddy system his mother had implemented when he and his siblings went to Diagon Alley or anywhere. You didn’t go anywhere without someone else. “Put me on Harry’s case,” he said, looking up for the first time.

“You know I can’t do that,” Robbards told him sternly.

“I know more about him than anyone else, I know who goes after him. He’s _my_ partner.”

“You’re too close to the people involved, Weasley,” Robbards stated, his tone brooking no room for argument.

Ron’s anger reared. “You can’t make me –”

“No, Weasley. Emotional involvement in a case leads to bad decisions. I know you fought with him in the war, and you two make a damn good team, but I’m not having you jump to conclusions just because you want him back faster. That’s my final decision.” He glared at Ron, eyebrows furrowed together. “I’ve got my best men on it. Go home.”

Ron ran a hand over his eyes. “I can’t. I can’t go home and do nothing but worry over if he’s actually going to survive this time. I don’t care what you give me, but give me something to work on, because I’m _not_ going home.”

Robbards sighed. “Fine. Finish those reports. I’ll have you brought more.” 

“Thank you, sir,” Ron acquiesced, and moved his attention back to the report he’d been working on, trying not to think as he deciphered Harry’s messy case notes. 

It was several hours later and several times that in cups of tea when he finally gave up trying to pay attention to the report he was writing up. The department had apparently taken Robbards’ orders as an excuse to hand over all the boring, bland cases that none of them wanted to write up. He was currently deciphering case notes that were even worse written than Harry’s, and Harry’s writing was notoriously bad. And at least Harry’s notes were generally interesting. This set was about an incident in which a woman had thrown an Elf on the Shelf at a Muggle shopkeeper, reportedly because ‘its spellwork was shoddy’ and ‘it didn’t move.’ It probably would have helped if he knew what an Elf on the Shelf actually _was_. 

He reached for his tea mug – empty again – and got up, heading towards the door. As he did, two young, probably junior Aurors passed by in the hallway. He caught three phrases – Potter, Malfoy, and Death Eater – before he was out in the hall and clapping one on the shoulder.

The one he’d stopped flinched violently, both of them spinning to look at him.

“You know better than to gossip about cases in the hallway,” he told them, putting on his best stern Auror voice.

“Sir,” the junior squeaked, and really, was he that frightening? He was completely whipped by his wife and had two small children, for Merlin’s sake. 

“Sorry, Sir,” the other managed. “It’s just, Malfoy, he’s been taken in for questioning.”

“And you chose to call him a Death Eater?” He could just imagine Harry’s reaction to _that_. 

“No, Sir,” they both said.

“Good, because he was pardoned,” he told them sternly. He felt old. He didn’t even _like_ Malfoy, but here he was, defending the man’s innocence. He supposed he could put it down to Harry’s insistence that the child Death Eaters had been just as damaged and manipulated during the war as they had. He couldn’t really argue with that.

“Yes, Sir,” they agreed.

He let them go and wandered towards the staff room, intent on refilling his mug. As he filled the kettle again, he frowned. Something felt off. It made sense that Malfoy would be brought in for questioning. He was Harry’s boyfriend – and wasn’t that hard to say – after all. But the way the juniors had said it… He forgot about his tea and headed back down the hallway towards the interrogation rooms on the opposite side of the department. 

A couple people tried to talk to him on the way there, but he brushed them off, getting to the rooms, that little instinct of wrongness pushing him forward. He stopped, feeling a little foolish, at the opening of the hallway from which the ten rooms, which were occasionally used as holding cells, branched off. What was he expecting? Torture? Screaming? 

_You came this far, might as well check_ , he thought, and stepped into the hallway. A glance into the window of the first room revealed a friendly Auror taking a statement from a crying woman, offering her tissues and smiling encouragingly as he took notes. In the next, an angry teen wizard covered in runic tattoos was getting a stern talking to from another Auror. 

At the third, he stopped dead. 

And then he’d wrenched open the door and punched someone in the face before he could even register the movement. 

Malfoy was half-collapsed against the wall, struggling to breathe. The bottle of Veritaserum that the Auror had been trying to forcibly pour down his throat was shattered on the floor. 

“ _WHAT THE HELL DID YOU THINK YOU WERE DOING_?” Ron yelled, enraged. He dragged the Auror up by the collar and shoved him out of the room. The man’s nose was unnaturally crooked and bleeding profusely. “ _HOW THE HELL WAS THAT WRITTEN CONSENT_?”

Doors burst open up and down the hallway, and Ron let go of the man, feeling disgusted. He pushed the door of the interrogation room closed to give Malfoy some privacy, and glared hotly around him.

“Weasley,” Robbards said, angry, “What is going on here?!”

“I’ll be happy to tell you,” Ron said, “just as soon as I drink the Veritaserum that he” – he pointed at the downed Auror savagely – “was trying to force down Malfoy’s throat!”

There was dead silence in the hallway.

“Auror Parker,” Robbards said, and that must’ve been the man’s name, “is this true?”

“He refused to take it,” the man said, dragging himself to his feet, voice nasally through the blood clotting in his nose. “He’s Death Eater scum, I’m not taking his statement at his word.”

Ron wanted to hit him again, but a drawling voice interrupted him. The door must’ve been opened without him noticing. “Actually,” Malfoy said, hand rubbing against the red finger-shaped marks on his throat, “All I did was ask for the _consent form_ to sign.” He looked almost relaxed against the door frame, but Ron had paid attention in his Observation courses, and the tenseness in Malfoy’s shoulders spoke of a world of uneasiness. “And he told me,” Malfoy said quietly, “that he’d _show me_ consent.”

The silence this time was worse. 

“Follow me, Parker,” Robbards growled.

“He’s lying!” the idiot yelled.

Ron bristled, but Robbards just said, “NOW, Parker. And, Weasley, please escort Malfoy to his home.”

“Yes, Sir,” he agreed. 

The audience in the hallway lost interest and left as he turned to the former Slytherin. “Are you alright?” he asked seriously.

“Didn’t realize you cared, Weasley,” he said, drawl and Malfoy mask firmly in place. Ron couldn’t blame him. 

“Nothing personal, Malfoy,” he said tightly, “I’d do it for anyone.” He also figured that Malfoy would appreciate normality more than he’d appreciate the gentleness he generally offered injured civilians. “We’ve got some of your anti-bruise potions down in the medical bay.” He jerked his thumb in that direction.

“And I’ve got potions at the Manor,” Malfoy sniped, tugging at his collar in a nervous fidget he didn’t even seem to notice.

“Let’s get you there, then.”

“I’m not a damsel in distress, Weasel,” the blond hissed.

“I’m not saying you are,” Ron said, ignoring the insult. “Robbards gave me an order.”

Malfoy stayed, tense against the doorframe, before finally taking a step forward. “Fine.” 

As he led the former Slytherin towards the Apparition spot in the department, he thought he heard him mutter “Bloody Gryffindors,” under his breath. It almost made him grin.

“Where we headed?” he asked, stepping into the painted circle that represented the deliberately made bubble in the anti-Apparition wards. 

“Summerside Manor,” Malfoy told him. The Malfoy Manor had been sold and demolished after the war, Ron remembered. He didn’t miss it. There were no good memories in that place.

He concentrated hard on his four D’s, and then turned on the spot, feeling the now-familiar pull at his navel tugging him through space. He popped into existence in the middle of a field, no manor in sight. He spun around, suspecting that Malfoy had given him the wrong name, but the blond was standing right beside him.

“Where are we?”

“Edge of the wards,” Malfoy informed him. 

Ron blinked. _What wards_? he wondered, looking around. There was nothing here, nothing… except… he caught sight of a slight magical shimmer about a hundred feet in the air. He gave a low whistle. “Nice wards.”

“Designed by the best,” Malfoy boasted, and it was weird that Ron had kind of missed the smug snarkiness after all the tense anger. “You can leave now,” he informed Ron.

“Can’t,” the Auror told him. “Protocol.”

Malfoy bristled. “We’re not on a _date, Weasley_ ,” – and wasn’t that an awful thought – “You don’t need to walk me to the door.”

Ron tried not to grimace and failed. “As if, Malfoy. Protocol says injured civilians must be escorted to either the nearest medical official, or, if injuries are not in need of professional attention, to their doorstep or nearest family member,” he recited the rule.

Malfoy glared at him, and then sighed. “Fine. Come on then.” He stalked off towards the wards, muttering under his breath angrily. He stopped and pulled out his wand as he reached a shimmering spot. “Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy,” he said clearly, performing a complicated wand pattern. He turned and looked at Ron. “And guest,” he added.

Then he stepped through the wards, Ron trailing after him. 

As soon as he stepped through, and it felt a bit like passing through his mother’s homemade gelatine, it was like he’d Apparated somewhere else. On the other side, he’d been looking at an uninhabited, wild-flower covered field. Now, he was looking at a lush garden and a massive Victorian-style manor with an actual _tower_. And was that a _peacock_? The elegant cobblestone pathway led right up to a set of arched double-doors with stained glass windows, and he could even see a set of Quidditch hoops over the hedge. Did he have an actual private pitch? Seriously?!

He realized he was gaping and snapped his jaw shut, but it was too late. Malfoy was smirking at him anyways. 

One of the front doors opened suddenly and a vaguely familiar person stepped out. Slytherin, Ron recognized, in their year from Hogwarts. What was his name? Blazer? Beanie? Something?

“Blaise,” Malfoy greeted.

“Draco,” the tall, dark-skinned man said in turn, and looked at Ron, eyes going to his hair, bright red and telling as usual. “Weasley.”

He remembered suddenly. “Zabini,” he greeted.

“I heard you’d been abducted by Aurors,” Zabini said, clearly dismissing Ron.

“My mother exaggerates, Blaise,” Draco told him, looking exasperated, but his shoulders relaxed. 

Then, suddenly, “You have bruises on your neck,” and Blaise sounded slightly angry. He turned to face Ron, glaring.

Malfoy sighed. “Not him.” 

Zabini’s hand was in his pocket. “He’d better hope it’s not him.” 

Ron resisted the urge to draw his own wand and raised a hand defensively. “I’m not involved in the case.”

“What case?” the dark-skinned man asked, spinning back to face Malfoy.

A stricken, angry, sad, hopeless look crossed Malfoy’s face, and Ron blinked quickly, thinking he imagined it, but the blond has already turned away, Zabini moving to put his hand on his shoulder. It’s a friendly gesture, comforting, though perhaps not as openly so as Ron would generally do with his friends if he’d seen _that_ look on their face, but it’d do. He took it as his cue to leave, turning back down the pathway towards the edge of the wards.

He heard Malfoy speak just before he moved out of listening range. “Do you remember when I told you I was seeing someone?” There was a noise of acquiescence from the other former Slytherin. “Well, he… it’s… Har –” The door closed and Ron didn’t hear the rest, but it was good enough, apparently Harry’s boyfriend was in good hands. Ugh. He’s never going to get used to that _word_. 

He pushed back through the weird gelatinous wards and Apparated back to the Ministry.

Robbards was waiting for him when he popped back into existence, arms crossed over his chest. 

“You’ll be supervising Malfoy’s next interrogation,” he informed him without preamble.

Ron blinked. “What?” Then, accusingly, “You said I wasn’t allowed to be involved in the case.”

“That was before I discovered you’re capable of being objective regarding him,” the Head Auror growled. “Which apparently my men cannot be. You will be here tomorrow.”

Ron had a feeling Parker had been fired. “Yes, Sir.”

“Good.” He stalked off.

“Right,” Ron muttered, a bit bewildered, and then went back to his office to finish writing up the report about that stupid Elf on the Shelf, Harry’s empty desk greeting him like a punch in the gut.

~>~>~>

The next afternoon, he found himself leaning against the wall of an interrogation room, watching one of the senior Aurors set out a bottle of Veritaserum, a consent form, quill, and what Ron thinks might be a mandatorily written letter of apology from Parker. They’ve already tested the Veritaserum, they’re just waiting for Malfoy.

The blond showed up exactly on time, bruises already gone from around his neck – that anti-bruise cream he invented has always been incredibly effective – looking just as relaxed as he had the previous day, which is to say, not at all. He looked at Ron.

“What are you doing here?”

“Supervising,” he informed him. “Robbards orders.”

The pureblood stared at him for a second, but as he turned away to settle into the chair, the tiniest bit of tension seemed to ease from his shoulders. 

“Mr. Malfoy,” the senior Auror greeted, “My name is Timothy Grey.”

“Auror Grey,” Malfoy replied, polite as always.

“I have here a consent form for questioning under Veritaserum. However, I can offer you other options in the form of signed written statements or multiple spoken interrogations with separate Aurors.” He paused. “I would advise, given your history, that you choose the Veritaserum, but you will in no way be forced to do so.” He said this very strongly. Ron approved. “The Auror Department expresses its sincerest apologies regarding your experience yesterday. Matthew Parker has since been removed from our employ.” He handed the apology letter over.

Malfoy took it, but looked like he was visibly holding back a snort of derision. “You have my gratitude,” he said instead.

Auror Grey nodded. “I understand you expressed interest in consenting to Veritaserum yesterday afternoon?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said. 

“Good,” Grey smiled. “I also understand that this potion is one of your own make. We’ve tested it, and it is of superb quality, as always.”

The blond smiled, “I am glad to hear it.”

The Auror had him sign the consent form and carefully sealed it away, before offering the potion to him. “I trust you know the correct amount?”

Malfoy nodded and tilted his head back to drop three droplets of the liquid under his tongue. He swallowed twice, then nodded to Grey.

“What is your full name?”

“Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy.”

“What is your birthdate?”

“June 5, 1980.”

“What is your current age, to the year?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Very good, Mr. Malfoy. I shall proceed with the real questions now. Where were you the day of August 12, 2012?”

“I spent the morning, afternoon and early evening at Summerside Manor in Wiltshire. I proceeded to a reservation at La Casa Ristorante at six in the evening, and waited for Harry. When he didn’t show up, I went to his house,” – he seemed to struggle over this, as if he’d wanted to say Grimmauld Place, but Grey seemed to understand – “where I did not find him. I then went to the Weasley’s home, the Burrow, and later returned to Harry’s home and then back to the Manor for the night.”

“Why were you meeting Harry James Potter on this day?”

“It was the six month anniversary of our relationship,” Malfoy said.

“Had you at any point subjected Harry James Potter to a love potion?” 

“No.” Malfoy’s answer was short and uninflected, but his eyes went flinty.

“I apologize, Mr. Malfoy, but it needed to be asked to assure your innocence. Mr. Potter has had such experiences in the past,” Grey informed him, apologetic.

“I understand.”

“How long had you had access to Harry James Potter’s residence, to the nearest you can remember?”

“Four months, 2 weeks, 3 days and 14 hours,” Malfoy stated without pausing. Ron and Auror Grey blinked at him, and a light blush suffused his cheeks. 

“Were you aware of the nature of the wards on Harry James Potter’s residence?”

“Yes.”

“Can you list as many as you can remember?”

Malfoy listed them all, right to the Security Out-Call Spell.

“Did you at any point tell anyone about the wards on this residence?”

“No, except for Harry, we spoke about them.”

The questioning continued on the same lines, asking everything from Harry’s whereabouts that day, that Malfoy knew of, to the exact things he had done that day, whether he knew Harry’s current whereabouts, whether he had been at all involved in Harry’s disappearance, and whether anyone he knew had come into or still was in contact with Harry. None of it, except for the apparent attention Malfoy paid to the details of his and Harry’s relationship, was of any news to Ron. 

“Do you still feel a compulsion to answer my questions, Mister Malfoy?”

“N-Yes,” Malfoy stuttered, blinking, which was the typical sign of the potion wearing off. 

Auror Grey smiled. “Very good. I expect it will wear off within ten minutes. May I ask you to return tomorrow to continue the questioning?”

“Yes,” Malfoy said, pupils dilating weirdly as the Veritaserum wore off.

“Good, Auror Weasley and I shall step out a moment while you adjust. We shall be just outside the door if you need anything.”

Malfoy nodded, looking a bit out of it, and the two of them left the room.

As the door closed, Ron asked, “How’d that go?”

“Very well,” Auror Grey smiled. “However, one of the weaknesses of Veritaserum is that it relies on memory, as I’m sure you recall from your classes?”

Ron nodded.

“I did note that when I asked whether he had told anyone about the wards on Auror Potter’s residence, his left hand twitched. If you recall, that is one of the tells?” He paused to see Ron’s acquiescence. “He answered negatively, which indicates he doesn’t remember telling anyone, but the tell indicates that he did at some point mention the wards. He may have been inebriated, or experienced memory modification. However, for all we know, he may have just mentioned one of the spells offhand, and, at any rate, it was assuredly not him who conducted your partner’s disappearance, even if he may have inadvertently passed along information.”

“Which is good, because it means he’s innocent.”

“Very good,” Auror Grey smiled. “I shall continue the questioning tomorrow. I trust you can escort Mr. Malfoy to the Apparition point?”

“Yes, Sir.”

When Malfoy opened the door, still looking a bit like he’d had a brush with a Bludger, it was to tell him that “I am very tired of you being my guide dog, Weasley.”

And Ron, though for the life of him he couldn’t figure out why, just smiled at him.


	3. Conversations

When his shift ended on Friday, Ron walked out of the Ministry on foot. The fresh air on his face was heavenly, even if London had decided to sport a cloudy sky in August. The knot of worry in his heart had tightened into something tangible and solid, and he pulled a charmed Galleon out of his pocket with a frown on his face.

He didn’t think he could go home right now, to kids who would ask, once again, after their Uncle Harry. To a wife who was barely sleeping and whom he found practically unconscious in the house’s book-filled study more often that she ended up in their actual bed. It was nearly five days, five days, since Harry had disappeared, and they had nothing, absolutely nothing to work with. No leads, no clues, nothing.

Malfoy’s further two Veritaserum interrogations had revealed nothing, except that the man was incredibly devoted to and serious about Harry. The only tell that had occurred was the first one, when he said he’d spoken to no one about the wards. They’d even tried asking if he had ever been inebriated to the point of forgetting things, or if he’d experienced any memory loss in the time he’d been with Harry. All that had revealed was that red flushes were very noticeable on Malfoy’s skin, and that apparently getting excessively drunk was something he and Harry did on occasion. Ron didn’t know what to do anymore.

He ducked into an alley, out of sight of the Muggles, and pulled out his wand. Touching it to the Galleon, he wrote, “GOING 2 WWW. OK?” 

A few seconds later, he got an answer. “OK. C U L8ER.” It’d taken him a while to get used to Muggle text-speak, as ‘Mione called it, but it was faster than spelling out whole sentences on the Galleons and having to wait as it cycled through on the coin. 

He rubbed a hand over his face and wrote, “LUV U,” before pocketing the coin and setting off towards the Leaky Cauldron. He smiled when he felt her reply glow warm in his pocket.

Tom greeted him from behind the bar, all crooked teeth and cheerfulness. “Just heading through?” he asked. 

Ron nodded, and the barman waved him towards the back. A wand tap to a certain brick later and he was walking through Diagon Alley, feeling comforted by the usual hurried hustle and bustle of the streets, so different from the eerie, wary silences of the war. At least Harry’s disappearances didn’t mean imminent battle for the entire Wizarding World anymore.

The thought made him frown, and he walked the rest of the way to Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes with a furrow in his brow and his stomach tightening in knots.

The store was just as loud and busy as ever, George’s hired hands working frantically at the tills. Lee Jordan popped out of nowhere within seconds of him entering, a ridiculous amount of joke product balanced in his arms.

“Hey, Ron!” He greeted, all smiles, though his eyes weren’t quite bright enough to match. “George’s in the back. Try to make sure you don’t startle him. I think he’s working on something explosive.” He winked and then he was gone again, shelving products at what should be inhuman speed.

Ron worked his way through the crowd of apparently joke-starved children and finally pushed his way into the much quieter back room. He had never been so glad for Silencing Charms. Sure enough, his brother was bent attentively over a cauldron, notebook in one hand and crystal stirring stick in the other. He waited for George to put the stuff down before he stepped forward.

“Hey,” he said, peering curiously at what looked to be a set of living fuzzy slippers, complete with twitching bunny ears and blinking blue eyes.

“Hey,” George greeted, looking up briefly. “Give me five minutes and this should be stable enough to put under a stasis charm.”

Should? Ron thought, and was immeasurably glad when George cast a shield charm on top of the stasis charm five minutes later. 

George looked at him for a second, perceptive as ever, and then said, “Firewhisky?”

“Merlin, yes.”

A little later they were both seated at the island in the kitchenette George had installed to ensure he didn’t starve too badly when he got caught up in a project, whisky glasses in hand. 

“Bad week?”

“Yeah,” Ron said, staring at the ice cubes melting far too fast in his glass.

“Anything come up about Harry?”

The younger brother took a large sip of the alcohol and set it down before burying his face in his hands. “Nothing, literally nothing. It’s like he disappeared off the face of the earth, George. Him and Kreacher. Just gone.” 

“And Malfoy?”

“Clean as a Kneazle’s fur.” He blew out a long breath and looked at his brother. “He really bloody loves him, you know. He could tell us, to the hour, when Harry first let him into to Grimmauld Place.”

George raised an eyebrow. “Really?” 

“Yeah, and not just that either. Every answer was weirdly detailed, like he’s memorized everything perfectly. Usually you get some struggling, even with Veritaserum, to perfectly restructure conversations with people. He didn’t so much as blink.” He swirled what little ice cubes remained in his glass. “Blushes like mad, too.” 

George’s lips crooked in a half-smile. “I’d bet, with that skin.”

Ron barked a laugh, before sobering. “What if he’s really gone this time, George?”

His brother reached across the table and clapped a hand over his. “It’s only been five days. Harry’s lasted longer than this before.”

Yeah, he had, Ron thought, swallowing the last of the Firewhisky. That time with the love potion had only been three days before they found him. But the time he’d been trapped inside a portrait when he’d accidentally triggered a curse in Grimmauld place? That had been over two weeks. And the time he’d gotten transfigured into a chair by a dark wizard in a bookshop? Over three. 

“It wasn’t like this before, though, George,” Ron said, eyebrows furrowing. “There’s always been clues, always ways to figure it out and get him back. This time… nothing, just… _nothing_.”

The older brother squeezed his hand, eyes tight, just as they’d been years ago, after the war, after they’d lost Fred. “You just haven’t looked in the right places yet, that’s all. Give it time.” 

Ron sighed, and then smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, you’re right.” He lifted his empty glass half-heartedly. “I should go. ‘Mione’ll be waiting for me.” 

George took the glass. “Give her a hug from me.” 

“Will do.”

He turned towards the door.

“Ron?”

He glanced back.

“We’re here, if you need anything.”

Ron managed an honest smile at that. “Yeah, I know.” Then he stepped through the door. Navigating the excessively loud masses of shop-goers took only a second, and he slipped back onto Diagon Alley with relief. 

He should go home, he should go back to his house, his wife, his kids. He should make dinner, and read the kids one of the Tales of Beedle the Bard, should convince Hermione to go to bed, and try and get some sleep himself. He should do anything but stand here in the middle of a busy street and stare at where Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour is being closed down for the night and remember the many times he’s met Harry there with the kids. 

Why couldn’t he have been best friends with someone who didn’t manage to get themselves nearly killed so often? Neville, perhaps, or maybe Seamus. Shaking his head, he pulled his wand from his sleeve, intending to Apparate. 

For a second, he thought of home, of Hermione and Hugo and Rose. 

But… ‘ _You just haven’t looked in the right places yet, that’s all_.’ After a moment’s deliberation, Ron sighed, and turned on the spot. 

A second of feeling like being squeezed through a tight tube later, he was standing on the doorstep of Grimmauld Place. The door, a shiny painted red after Harry’s renovation spree two years prior, didn’t have a doorknob, but he placed his hand where one should’ve been anyways. The windows seemed accusing in their darkness.

The wards went cold for a second, assessing, and then accepted him. The door swung open into the creepily silent and dark front hallway, seeming far too much like it had during the war, rather than the bright, sunlit home Harry had renovated it into.

“Lumos,” Ron said, and was relieved when his wand lit up the alcove in which Mrs. Black’s protract had originally taken up residence. Instead of a screaming banshee of a Dark witch, the spell illuminated an artfully arranged set of Wizarding photographs: Hugo and Rose, George and Angelina’s wedding, his and Hermione’s trip to Paris, a massive photo of the entire Weasley clan, waving cheerily at him through the glass – Harry’s family.

He followed the collection of photos down the hall, trying not to notice the empty space of wall where Harry and Ginny’s wedding photo had used to hang, letting them lead him into the sitting room and connected dining room and kitchen. The fire was cold, and a couple dirty dishes sat by the sink, stark signs of Kreacher’s absence.

Ron sighed.

Something clattered to the floor somewhere in the dark.

Ron spun around, wand at the ready. The sound came from the living room, where George had found Harry’s abandoned wand. 

“Nox,” Ron whispered, plunging the room into darkness. He waited a moment to let his eyes adjust, then stepped, carefully and slowly, towards the room’s doorway.

Closer, he could hear the floor creaking, and someone breathing in a rather odd way, choppy. He took a quick look around the doorframe, but whoever it was stood just outside the area of the room he could see. Wondering briefly if it’d be better to call for backup – and then thinking that whoever it was would be long gone before he could get to the Ministry and back, he took a steadying breath, and then strode purposely into the room.

“Expelliarmus!” 

The figure near the window made a startled sound as their wand flew across the room into Ron’s grasp, platinum blond hair stark even in the unlit room.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Ron said, feeling his ears going red. “Jesus, Malfoy.” He turned and pointed his wand at the room’s chandelier – “Lumos.” 

The chandelier lit up briefly, and then dimmed. “Bloody hell,” Ron growled, glaring at it. “Lumos, for Merlin’s sake.” It lit up that time, if a bit reluctantly. Ron was not, after all, a Black, and the house was not very welcoming of non-Blacks, except for Harry. He turned back to the former Slytherin, who was wiping a robe-clad arm over his eyes. “What were you doing standing around in the dark?”

The blond turned away, hair falling across his cheekbone to cover his face, before removing his hand from his eyes.

“Malfoy?” Ron asked, a bit concerned now.

“I’m fine, Weasley,” the other man said, voice sounding strange. 

“You don’t sound f – ”

“ _I’m fine_ ,” he snapped, finally turning to glare at Ron.

The redhead blinked, taking in tellingly red-rimmed eyes. Had he been crying? Merlin, where was ‘Mione when you needed her? “Right,” he said, deciding to let him keep his dignity. 

They stared at each other awkwardly for a moment. 

“What are you doing here anyways?” Malfoy asked, sounding tired.

“Thought I’d take a look around, see if we missed anything,” Ron said. “It’s been –”

“Five days,” Malfoy finished for him, and then looked down at the ground, where a photograph lay face down, probably what he’d heard fall. He picked it up – Ron caught a brief glimpse of Harry’s parents – and then carefully, almost lovingly, set it back on the cabinet near the wall. 

“What are _you_ doing here?” Ron asked.

Malfoy made a frustrated sound. “Looking. Same as you. Salazar, I feel – I feel so useless.” He spun to look around the room, running a hand violently through his hair, and then held his hand roughly out to the redhead, glaring. “Give me my wand.”

Ron blinked. “What?”

“My _wand_ , Weasley.”

“Oh, yeah, sorry.” He handed it back, wondering if it was quite safe to give it back when Malfoy was so – 

The blond pureblood flourished his wand at the room, and Ron took a step back.

“Homenum Revelio.” Nothing happened.

“Specialis Revelio,” Malfoy tried. Again, nothing.

Manic, that was the word Ron was looking for. Malfoy seemed a bit… manic.

“Accio Portkey.” Nothing.

“Aparecium!” Nothing.

“Malfoy,” Ron tried, feeling a bit worried by the constant, progressively louder spellcasting. “They would’ve tried –”

“Creaturae Revelio!” And, suddenly, something glowed from behind the curtains tied back at the window.

For a second, they both just stared at the blue lit up spot, before glancing at each other.

“I hadn’t heard that one before,” Ron said.

“It’s supposed to reveal creatures, non-humans,” Malfoy said. “I just thought… with Kreacher.” 

The glowing spot, thankfully, was much too small to be Kreacher. Ron took a cautious step forward. “Mobiliarbus,” he said, flicking his wand to the side. 

As soon as the curtain moved, Malfoy made a noise halfway between a snort and an angry snarl, and stalked out of the living room. 

A dead Doxy was lying on the floor against the wall, just where the curtain would’ve hid it. Disappointed, but not quite as much as Malfoy seemed to be, Ron gave it a quick inspection. Odd. It seemed to have starved, or maybe dehydrated, to death, if the emaciation was anything to go by, and was in a somewhat weird position. Also, definitely starting to smell. 

“Depulso,” Ron said, making a face, Banishing both Doxy corpse and smell from the room, and then followed the sound of Malfoy’s frustrated breathing back into the dining room.

The Potions Master’s knuckles were white in their grip on the back of one of the dining chairs, and, speaking of emaciation, did Malfoy ever _eat_? Merlin, he looked even skinnier from this angle.

“Malfoy,” the Auror tried.

“A Doxy,” the blond muttered. “A _bloody_ Doxy.” 

“Look, Malfoy –”

“Five days he’s been missing, and all we can find is a _bloody Doxy_!” By the end of the sentence, the man was shouting.

“Er –”

Before Ron could even articulate anything, the blond had covered the distance between them and had his wand jabbed against his rib cage. 

“Are you even doing _anything_ to find him?!” the former Slytherin shouted. 

Yep, definitely shouldn’t have given his wand back. Ron raised his hands in a gesture of peace, wishing he hadn’t put his wand back in his sleeve. “Easy, Malfoy!”

“You _bring him back_!” Malfoy shouted. “Do you have _any_ idea what the Death Eaters could do to people in _five days_? You –”

“Draco!” 

That seemed to make an impression.

“I – You – Weasley…”

“It’s alright,” Ron said, and had a weird sense of déjà vu not back to their school days, but to every single time he’d had the unfortunate duty of informing a family that their husband, or wife, or son, or daughter, was dead. Jesus. This wasn’t exactly what he’d been expecting from _Malfoy_. And usually he went into those encounters with a Shield charm up. “Just put the wand down, okay?”

Malfoy looked at his wand, still pressed uncomfortably close to Ron’s heart. 

“I –” 

“Move the wand, Draco,” Ron said, a bit more sternly.

Malfoy did, and took a shaky step back. “I – I – Sorry.”

Ron put several feet between them, barely blinking as he looked at the blond. There was no pureblood mask now, no sneer, just the same uncomprehending, victimized expression that he’d seen on way too many people in his days as an Auror. Bloody hell, it was like looking at a different person. This was freaking him out. “I’m going to get you a Calming Draught.” 

“What?” Malfoy’s eyes flashed to his. “I don’t need –”

“Yes, you do.” Well, if Malfoy was going to act like a victim, Ron was going to treat him like a victim. Even if it felt bloody bizarre. “Wait here.” He turned away, surprised that he didn’t feel too weird about turning his back on the man. He jogged quickly back towards the stairs that lead to Grimmauld’s second floor, and rooted through Harry’s bathroom cabinet. Taking note of a Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion for Beauteous Blondes that was definitely not Harry’s, he located a cheery yellow potion in among a bunch of Hangover Draughts. 

Malfoy was still in the dining room when Ron got back, staring at his wand and looking tired. 

“Here. Even looks like it’s one of yours,” Ron said, handing over the little bottle emblazoned with the Malfoy crest. 

The Potions Master took it, rolling it between his fingers. “Weasley –”

“Drink it.”

He glared at Ron for a moment, and then did, before Banishing the bottle with a wave of his hand.

“Feel better?” Ron asked.

The blond glared at him a bit harder. “In your company?” 

“I’ll take that as a yes.” 

The blond gave him a suspicious look. 

“Look, Malfoy,” Ron sighed. “You aren’t the only one who wants Harry back safe, you know. We’re going to find him. We always find him. He spent three weeks as a chair in a bookshop in Dorchester and we still found him. It’s only been five days.” Five days that felt like an eternity, but he was looking to calm Malfoy down, not rile him up. “We’ll find him, and he’ll be fine.”

“How can you promise that?” Malfoy snapped.

“Because I won’t believe any different! He’s Harry!” Ron spread his arms expressively. “The Chosen One, the bloody Boy Who Lived Twice.” 

“And he’s also a bloody idiot who can’t take care of himself!” 

“That’s why he has us!” Merlin, did he just say ‘us’ in a way that included Malfoy and him? As in a team, together? Because bloody hell. “Look, we’re going to find him, and he’ll be fine, but hanging around in this empty house isn’t going to do him, or you, any good.”

“And hanging around in _my_ house will?” Malfoy snarled.

Ron sighed, and then tried again. “Draco, just go home, get some sleep, eat something, make some Potions, do whatever it is you normally do. I promise I’ll let you know first thing if we find anything. And I promise we’re looking.”

“Swear it?”

“I’ll give you a Wizard’s Oath if I have to.”

The former Slytherin stared at him, seemed satisfied. “That won’t be necessary.” 

On sudden impulse, Ron said, “And come to Sunday Dinner. At the Burrow.”

The man’s sneer turned to a wry expression. “I highly doubt I’ll be welcome, Weasley.”

Trying not to regret it, Ron said, “We’re going to find Harry, and that means you’re going to be part of the family. We might as well start now. And someone needs to feed you. You look worse than Harry used to.”

Malfoy stared at him. “I’ll think about it.” He swept past, towards Grimmauld’s front door. As we just about to enter the front hallway, he paused. “And Weasley, if you ever call me by my first name again, I’ll hex you.”

Ron barked a laugh. “Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

He didn’t think he imagined the slight smile in response.


	4. Sunday Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Sunday night at the Burrow.

Sunday dinner was its usual boisterous affair – Ron could hear Victoire yelling at young Fred and somewhat terrifying laughter from some of the other children outside the Burrow’s kitchen window as he poured Hermione a glass of water. The pre-food portion of the evening was well underway, delicious smells floating from the oven and his mother already pulling various appetizers out of the food cupboard under the perpetual Freezing Charm. 

To be honest, with dinner probably less than a half-hour away, Ron wasn’t really expecting Malfoy to show up. He had been genuine when he’d made the offer, but at the same time, inviting the heir of a family publicly known to hate muggle-lovers to eat with the Weasleys had been a bit far-fetched. He himself had married a Muggleborn, after all. He shrugged it off, put the ice pitcher back in the cupboard, narrowly avoided spilling the glass as Molly raced by with a salad, and shuffled into the relatively safer (if not less hectic) living room.

“Thank you,” Hermione smiled as he handed her the glass, tucking herself under his arm. There were deep bags under her eyes – she hadn’t come to bed last night, he was pretty sure she had fallen asleep with her head in another spell book, trying yet again to find someway to find Harry. What she was researching seemed to change by the hour, from how to trace powerful unregistered Portkeys, which even the Unspeakables had never figured out, to old blood magic and tracking spells that were too dangerous and not to mention illegal to even be used, even if they’d had Harry’s blood, which no wizard would willing leave lying around. 

“Anytime, love,” he replied, dropping a kiss to her hairline. Even barely slept and with twitching fingers looking for pages to turn, she was still the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. He truly was hopeless.

“Malfoy still not here yet?” she asked.

Ron opened his mouth to reply – and the doorbell clanged.

He raised his eyebrows at her. She shrugged and gave him a tiny push in the direction of the door. Ah, married life, who needed words anyway?

This time at least, when he opened the door to pale, nervous, and platinum, it was less of a shock than the first. Even if nervous really just did not look _right_ on the pureblood.

“Malfoy, you made it!” Ron greeted, stepping forward to clap the man on the shoulder and pull him over the doorjamb. The blond jumped a bit at the contact, but relaxed slightly when through the door. At least they had avoided the weird stuttering and ‘should-I-be-here-should-I-not’ that he had observed in the man’s eyes. He’d lived through that one to many times already.

“Yes, I – I apologize for being late,” Malfoy said, and then proffered a wrapped gift in his hands, “my mother would never let me hear the end of it if I showed up without anything as I – as I did last time.” He faltered on the last few words, and Ron pretended not to hear, clapping him on the shoulder again.

“You didn’t have to bring anything! But come on in, Mum will be thrilled. Here, give me your robe.” Never mind that robes weren’t really Sunday dinner material, he hadn’t really expected a muggle sweater and jeans on the Potions Master. Potions Masters didn’t really do jeans, if Snape was any measure of such things. At least with the outer robes gone, Malfoy was wearing dress slacks and a rather billowy silk shirt, and not dress robes or, heaven forbid, that weird billowy cape thing that their professor had once worn.

“This way,” he gestured, and moved back towards the loud living room, Malfoy trailing behind like a nervous Crup, gift clutched in bone-white hands. 

George was the first to spot them as they stepped into the room, and he threw them a lopsided smile. “Just in time for the best part! Dinner’s almost ready.”

“It smells lovely,” Malfoy said, somewhat faintly.

Not faintly enough not to catch the attention of the room with his unfamiliar voice, however.

Hermione caught Ron’s eye and smiled, but before she could say anything, a shrill voice pierced the air.

“What is _he_ doing here?!” Ginny half-shouted, marching across the room. 

Damn, Ron had known he’d forgotten to tell someone that Malfoy was invited for dinner. Hermione’s smile turned to a grimace behind Ginny’s shoulder as the female redhead stomped towards them.

“You think you can just walk in here?!” Ginny accused, one finger pointing at Malfoy violently enough that it reminded Ron rather vividly of the wand movement for the Bat-Bogey Hex, “After – after what you’ve done to Harry?!”

“Ginny –” Dean made an attempt to interject, following across the room.

“No!” Ginny cut him off with a glare, before turning back to the blond, who had shrunk back towards the wall, “You think you can feed my family some lies about Harry being your… your _boyfriend_ and that’s it, all’s forgiven?! You’re probably the one who took Harry yourself!”

“Hey now!” Ron protested, taking a step between his sister and Malfoy. 

The accusatory finger descended on Ron. “And he’s got you fooled as well! What kind of Auror are you? He should be locked up somewhere getting – getting interrogated! Until we find where he’s taken Harry!”

“He _has_ been interrogated!” Ron interjected, spreading his hands wide. “Do you really think we haven’t used enough Veritaserum to drown a Grindylow trying to find out what happened?”

Ginny’s fingernail jabbed Ron in the chest. “Veritaserum that _he_ made. I can’t _believe_ you. I – I know Harry. I was bloody _married_ to him. I think I’d know if he was… if he was interested in –” She sent a heated glare in Malfoy’s direction, “– that!”

Ron scoffed at her. “Because being married to a bloke for less than a year really makes you an expert. You haven’t even _spoken_ to Harry since –”

“That is _ENOUGH_!” 

Both Ginny and Ron froze in place. Mum yelling was one thing, but Dad?

Arthur Weasley wore a thunderous expression, pulled up to his full height. “That is _quite_ enough,” he said. “Ginny, regardless of what you think of Mr. Malfoy or the Auror office’s techniques –”

Ginny, it appeared, wasn’t going to back down. “Techniques?” she spat, “Using Veritaserum that he made _himself_? _Those_ ‘techniques’?”

“Veritaserum I tested on _myself_ ,” Ron countered, as he had, the one day, drank the test batch himself.

Ginny gaped at him.

“Do you really think we treat Veritaserum like pumpkin juice?” Ron scoffed. “Someone could go and replace it with water or something.”

“Well –” Ginny began, obviously knocked slightly off-kilter. “That’s hardly the point. He has to be lying. Harry isn’t – Harry isn’t _gay_!”

This statement sent the room speechless for a long moment, with Dean wincing a bit behind Ginny’s back.

“He’s not,” a soft but strong voice managed from behind Ron. 

Malfoy stepped forward, knuckles still white around the wrapped gift. “Harry’s not gay.” He said this clearly and firmly. “He always said it was – it was just me.” He glanced at Ginny. “Just me.”

“As if!” Ginny shrilled. “Harry would never look twice at you, you Death Eat –”

“ _Silencio_!” Arthur roared.

Ginny’s shouting was suddenly cut short.

“I said: That is _enough_ , Ginny!” their father snapped, stepping forward and pulling his daughter out of the room. “Mr. Malfoy is our _guest_! Your mother and I raised you better than –” The rest of the sentence was muffled as Dad shut the front door behind them and took the Silencio off. Ron caught a few choice phrases in Ginny’s shrill voice and glanced over at Malfoy, who, impossibly, looked even paler than Ron remembered.

Malfoy caught his gaze. “At least –” he tried. “At least she didn’t hex me?”

This caught a surprised bout of laughter from many of the observers in the room, which made Malfoy look both taken aback and relieved at once. 

Molly bustled across the room from where she’d been hovering at the sidelines with her wooden spoon prior to Arthur’s interceding. “I’m terribly sorry, dear –”

She was cut off, however, by the sharp crack of Apparition outside, and then by Dad’s return. 

Arthur grimaced a bit, and then clapped a startled Malfoy on the shoulder. He turned to Dean. “You may want to –”

“Yeah,” Dean said. “I’ll go after her. See you next Sunday?” 

“Of course,” Arthur answered, and Ginny’s dark-skinned boyfriend slid out the door as well. 

Dad squeezed Malfoy’s shoulder a bit. “I apologize on behalf of my daughter.”

“It’s fine,” the former Slytherin answered quickly. “I’ve caused so much trouble, perhaps I should –”

“Nonsense!” Molly spoke up, reaching out to pat a pale cheekbone. “A bit of shouting is hardly out of the ordinary – it comes with the red hair, dear. Give it some time.” She patted his cheek again and frowned. “And I can hardly let you leave without having something to eat – you’re skin and bones!”

“I – Well – That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Weasley,” Malfoy managed, pureblood manners recovering. “You have a lovely home – I wanted,” he held out the gift to her, “to give you something as a thank you for your warm welcome.”

Warm welcome indeed, Ron thought, looking around the room at the much-quieter-than-normal Weasley clan. Most of the adults had watched the earlier interaction with a mix of surprise and guardedness. The kids, on the other hand, were staring with wide-eyed fascination from behind their parents. He could see Hugo tugging on Hermione’s hand, brimming with questions.

Mum smiled and took the gift – wrapped in Gryffindor colors, Ron noticed suddenly – and it opened automatically at her touch, the gold bow unspooling itself and the crimson paper folding away. 

“ _Oh_ , it’s lovely!” Molly beamed, reaching out to touch the delicate teacup and saucer now sitting in her hand. 

“To replace the one I broke,” Malfoy said, looking contrite. 

Considering the mug he had broken was at least twenty years old and had a chip in the handle, and this teacup was decorated lightly in gold filigree and painted with the Weasley family crest, Ron wasn’t really sure that “replace” was the right word for it.

“You shouldn’t have,” Mum said, patting his cheek again with her free hand. Malfoy was beginning to look a little overwhelmed by all the contact.

“I’ll go put this in the kitchen. Now – everyone to the table! Dinner is ready!” She bustled off. Her announcement seemed to snap the tension in the room, and the usual dull roar of conversation resumed as the crowd moved in the direction of the food.

Malfoy didn’t start moving as everyone else did, and Ron stayed with him, throwing a glance at Hermione and catching her quick smile with his own.

“I – thank you, Weasley,” the blond said, standing straighter and seeming to regain a few inches in height as the crowd diminished.

“For what?” Ron laughed. “Standing up to Ginny? That’s a regular Sunday, mate.”

“Regardless,” Malfoy answered, “You made it… easier. I never expected to be here without –”

“Without Harry?” Ron finished. 

Malfoy nodded, and Ron thought about it for a minute. What would it have been like, if Harry hadn’t gone missing? Showing up with a ring on his finger, then introducing the pointy, pale git that had been their childhood rival? Merlin, Ron may very well have been the one yelling.

“It would have been very different,” the redhead said.

“If this hadn’t happened, a lot of things would have been different,” Malfoy replied. “He was going to, you know – introduce me. He hated the secrets, but he was worried. You are family. It took me a while to understand that, the idea of family without blood. But knowing _his_ blood family and their _foul_ –” the blond suddenly regained his usual sneer before visibly calming himself. “I can’t say I was excited, but it was important to him. And now –”

Ron reached out and touched his shoulder. “We’ll find him.”

“It’s been seven days,” Malfoy breathed, mouth twisting. “What if –”

Ron’s fingers pressed into the silky shirt and against a bony shoulder. “Don’t think like that. You’d know. _I’d_ know. Right now, I know he’s alive, I can feel it.”

The blond pureblood looked him in the eye and then nodded.

“Come on, let’s go find a seat before the ravening hoards eat everything.”

He got Malfoy seated between Charlie and George, and then took a seat across the table next to Hermione. 

“Here,” Charlie said, cutting a hefty portion of roast and forking it over onto Malfoy’s plate. “You have to try this – Mum makes the best Beef Wellington.”

“Thank you, Weasley,” Malfoy said, glancing at him in surprise. 

“Oh, call me Charlie,” Ron’s brother grinned. “If you keep up that last-name shit, no one will ever know who you’re talking to.”

“Charlie,” the blond corrected. 

“And I’m George,” the stocky business-owner on Malfoy’s left interjected, glancing up from his food. “Say – Ron tells me you’re a Potion Master.”

“Yes, I am,” Malfoy answered, as Charlie served him some scalloped potatoes and George handed him a basket of fresh-baked rolls. 

“Brilliant!” George said. “I wanted to ask – I’ve been experimenting with the reaction between monkshood root and Doxy droppings –”

Hermione elbowed Ron in the ribs, and he lost track of the conversation. “What?” he asked, surprised.

“I’ve never known you not to eat your mother’s food,” his wife said, gesturing at his empty plate with her fork. “He’s fine – putting him between George and Charlie was a good idea.”

“Of course it was,” Ron said, puffing up a bit, and then remembered the food. Charlie was right about the Beef Wellington, he had better have some before it vanished.

A few seconds later, plate brimming over, he took a bite and glanced around the table. Bill was looking at their new guest with a speculative look, the scars across his face painted in stark relief. Ron hadn’t been sure about his reaction – it had been Malfoy who had let Fenrir Greyback into Hogwarts, whether he’d been coerced or not, but Bill soon shrugged and was distracted by Fleur. Percy and Penelope didn’t seem phased in the slightest. Mum and Dad were obviously fine. Charlie, having filled the blond’s plate to Molly’s satisfaction – Mum gave him a nod once the plate was quite full, was leaving him to George’s mercies as a fellow potion experimenter. Overall, except for the Ginny disaster, he thought this had gone rather well. 

Harry would be proud when (not if) he got to tell him.

“Mr. Malfoy?” A small voice piped up from behind George’s chair.

Rose, with her fire-red hair and the perpetual curious expression she’d inherited from her mother, poked her head from behind George’s chair.

“I – yes?” Malfoy replied, throwing a bewildered glance at Ron.

“Does this mean you’re our Uncle now?”

After a brief second of silence and the sight of Malfoy’s completely dumbfounded expression, everyone started laughing.

George took pity on the blond and patted his niece on the head. “Let’s wait for that until Uncle Harry gets back, alright, pumpkin?”

Ron’s daughter shrugged, easily satisfied, and skipped back to the table with the other children.

“Kids,” Charlie chuckled. “They say the damndest things.”

“Quite,” Malfoy said faintly.

The rest of the meal passed fairly uneventfully, with Malfoy and George getting in a rather heated yet good-natured argument about the appropriate uses of dragon scales in potion-making before Charlie interjected with stories about his encounters with dragons and their scales during his work in Romania. By the end, Ron had watched the blond eat at least two full plates of food between Charlie refilling his plate and distracting him, and then manage a large slice of cake forced on him by Molly during pudding. 

When Ron handed him his outer robes along with a container of leftovers that he was almost certain Malfoy would never eat, Molly or no Molly, Malfoy actually had some color in his cheeks, even if his slight smile didn’t touch anywhere near his eyes.

“You’ll be back next week,” Ron said, more a statement than a question.

Malfoy gave him a searching look. “That would be – fine.” 

“And if you need anything, you’ll Floo?”

“Yes, I’ll –" He stopped and looked at him suspiciously. “Is this mother-henning some kind of inherent Gryffindor trait?”

Ron’s lips twitched and he shrugged. “Harry would never forgive me if something happened to you, you know that.”

“You’re – you’re taking it rather well, Weasley.”

Ron dropped the smile and stared at him seriously. “I’ve spent most of the last week in a room with you under Veritaserum, Malfoy. I’ve heard things I’ve really rather unhear, but – look, we didn’t know about you, but Harry has been… _better_ these past few months. Happier. And if that’s even slightly because of you, I’m going to make sure you’re still here when we get him back.”

“When,” Malfoy echoed, pulling his robe closed around him.

“When,” Ron confirmed, voice firm, and opened the door. 

Malfoy stepped through, but then turned around, and something in his expression made Ron pause. He could hear laughter and conversation behind him, where some of the Weasleys were setting up a game of Exploding Snap. Some of the kids were laughing distantly and he could hear fast footsteps above him as they raced around the upper floor. The blond’s lips twisted in a wry kind of smile, almost wistful, and then his eyes snapped to Ron’s.

“You find him,” he said, strongly, gaze piercing. “Because I want this, all of this, and I want him _here_.”

“I will.”

Malfoy nodded, turned decisively on the spot, and was gone in a crack of Apparition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, let's not talk about the fact that I hadn't updated this since 2015. Sorry guys. Welcome to life as a new accountant. Overtime, studying for my Canadian CPA designation and all that really don't leave much energy to overcome writer's block. But yay for new chapter??


	5. Interrogations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The investigation progresses.

“You said I could be involved in the case,” Ron accused, standing in Robbards office on Monday morning.

“I said you could be involved in Mr. Malfoy’s interrogation, Auror Weasley,” Robbards countered, looking at him from the paperwork on his desk. “That is a far sight different than adding this case to your workload, as you well know.”

“Sir,” Ron tried.

“No,” Robbards interrupted, voice firm. “You are far too emotionally invested in this case –” 

“Well, someone needs to be!” Ron snapped. “It’s been eight days, sir! Whatever is being done, it isn’t _good enough_.”

Robbards sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m glad to see you think so highly of your fellow Aurors.”

Ron deflated. “You know that isn’t what I meant.”

“Is it not?” the Head Auror looked at him sharply. “I know that you consider Auror Potter essentially family, and that this is not easy for you, but I simply cannot let you be involved in an investigation when you have a clear bias.”

Ron sat in the chair across from Robbards desk, putting them both on the same level. “Please, Sir. I’m not saying that I should be allowed to make any decisions on the case. But I need to know what is being done – I may be able to offer insights, information that people who don’t know Harry as well as I would simply wouldn’t know.”

Robbards looked at him, eyebrows angled sharply. “Fine.”

Ron grinned widely. “Thank you –”

“Not so fast, Weasley,” his boss cut him off. “You will still not be involved in the case. Instead, I will relay progress reports to you and you will offer any insights on the information we have gathered. I will not tell you who is assigned to the case, and you will not attempt to find out who is. I will not have the investigation thrown off track by any bias you might introduce to the team, do you understand?”

“I understand,” the Ron replied, relieved that he would at least be getting this much access.

“Good,” Robbards eyed him carefully, and then pulled a folder out of a stack to the side of his desk, opening it between them.

“First, we have tracked Auror Potter’s movements prior to when he was taken. We know that on Saturday, he visited Andromeda Tonks and his godson Theodore Lupin, and spent some time in Diagon Alley helping Theodore shop for his Hogwarts supplies for when he starts another school year next month. Mrs. Tonks indicates that he stayed for dinner, and then left at about 9 o’clock in the evening. The next morning, he went out for a bit of shopping as he usually does on Sundays – we found a charge to his Muggle credit card at a nearby Tesco, and a cashier confirmed he was there. Then, as far as we can tell, he proceeded back to Grimmauld Place, and the next thing we know is that he failed to show up for a reservation at a Muggle restaurant called La Casa Ristorante at 6 o’clock.”

Ron nodded, shuffling through a printout of Harry’s credit card statement and a few pictures of him and Teddy which Andromeda must have provided, where the young Metamorphmagus had shifted his appearance so he looked like a younger version of his godfather, both grinning at the camera out on the patio of Andromeda’s house. Transcripts of Malfoy’s interrogations were in there as well, but he remembered them all too clearly as it was.

“From tracing his magical signature through his house using his wand, we know that in the hours before the disappearance, he spent most of his time in the library with a set of Muggle mystery novels, and some time in the kitchen and bathroom. His wand’s last spells were a series of basic Summoning Charms, a Reparo, and other simple household spells, save for a single Stupefy, which was the last spell he cast with his wand.”

An Auror’s set of notes on the magical signature trace and the wand spells made its way into his hands, but again, was not new information.

“Based on the dryness of the elf blood in the carpet, we estimate that Auror Potter was attacked sometime between two and four in the afternoon. How he was attacked, we do not know, as his wards show no evidence of tampering, and his Floo showed no activity during the entire day. Despite being an experienced duelist, his Stunning spell never hit its mark and despite having time to cast the Stupefy and struggle with his attacker enough to topple furniture, he did not activate his S.O.S. ward. It is possible that he lost his wand early in the struggle, but as we both know, his wandless magic would be more than sufficient to activate the wards.”

“It just doesn’t make sense,” Ron nodded. “If he had time to struggle, he had time to activate the wards.”

“Quite,” Robbards agreed. “Unless the wards had been tampered with, but the wards show no evidence of being damaged.”

“That’s another thing,” Ron said, “If the wards weren’t tampered with, then how did whoever it was get in? Harry doesn’t exactly give the keys to his door to a lot of people.”

“No, he does not,” Robbards agreed. “Upon review, the wards are keyed to let in a total of four people – you, your wife – Mrs. Granger-Weasley, Mr. Malfoy, and Auror Potter himself. All other individuals need a spoken invitation by one of those four.”

Ron nodded – that much he knew. Harry wasn’t taking any chances with his wards, not since that bloody love potion incident.

“Now, based on Veritaserum questioning, we know that Mr. Malfoy, while the newest person to be keyed to the wards, is not a viable suspect in the disappearance. Though it is possible that he mentioned the wards to someone outside the group based on certain tells during his questioning.”

“And Hermione and I were at the Burrow. We had a casual Quidditch match,” Ron noted.

“Which leaves us with two options. Either Auror Potter invited in his attacker himself, or the attacker found some way to get through the wards that we simply can’t detect.”

Neither option sat well in Ron’s stomach. He scanned the documentation of the ward tests in his hands – it all looked fine, exactly the same, in fact, as the documentation of the ward tests when they were first set up, which were also in the file.

Ron frowned suddenly. “But if he’d invited the attacker in himself, we would have known.”

Robbards glanced at him. “And how would we know that?”

“Well, Harry has a thing about feeding people. There would have been extra cups, a plate of food, something. It’s the first thing he does whenever anyone steps through the door. He never would have led someone right to the living room. Not unless they came through the Floo in there, but you just said the Floo wasn’t activated that day.”

“Interesting,” Robbards murmured, pulling out a quill from a drawer and jotting down a note. “And you’re sure this would be a consistent habit?”

“Definitely,” Ron said firmly, “He even used to do it to the reporters, back when he still allowed interviews at Grimmauld place.”

He was pretty sure Harry’s feeding-people thing came from not being fed nearly enough as a child, but Robbards didn’t really need to know that part.

“So, most likely,” Robbards mused, “the wards were bypassed in some way, and the attacker surprised Auror Potter, for some reason preventing him from activating his other wards. He then transported both Auror Potter and his house elf by unregistered Portkey, which easily bypassed the wards, as the wards are only one-way.”

“Which means we’re looking for someone magically powerful, because bypassing wards, creating Portkeys and hell, fighting Harry, are not exactly easy tasks,” Ron noted.

“And powerful enough to keep Auror Potter’s magic contained for the last eight days,” Robbards added.

“But why?” Ron added, “That’s another thing – if the attacker has gone to all this trouble, it seems like a statement. Taking Harry from his home, rather than the street – there are easier ways. To use a method like that and then go silent? It just seems inconsistent.”

“Which brings us to motive,” Robbards agreed. “As you well know, Auror Potter has no shortage of enemies, though most are in Azkaban. Based on prior incidents, we know the main reasons for him to be attacked. Either as a celebrity, such as the love potion incident, as an Auror, such as when criminals have attacked him in past, like the chair transfiguration, or because of his past, such as those incidents with the Neo-Death Eaters a few years ago.”

Ron nodded. “But the celebrity ones always end up exposing themselves because they’re in it for the fame, and hiding him away wouldn’t be consistent with their M.O.”

“And we haven’t had incidents with Neo-Death Eaters in years, as all of remaining perpetrators are now in Azkaban,” Robbards continued.

“And we weren’t involved in any major cases, not for over a month, because I took a vacation a couple weeks back and we wanted to make sure it didn’t interfere. We were supposed to hit active duty this week.”

The Head Auror nodded. “And if we ignore the fact that Auror Potter is, in fact, Auror Potter, there are other reasons to be attacked, such as money, but nothing was taken, not even powerful magical artifacts that were in the very same room as the struggle.”

Ron thought, trying to look past the fact that Harry was Harry. “But most crimes against people are committed by someone that the victim knows, yes?”

“Generally,” Robbards agreed, “Though Auror Potter has often been an exception to that rule.”

“It’s possible that he isn’t an exception this time,” Ron pointed out. “None of the usual case facts are relevant. No claim to fame, not even eight days after he was taken? No major criminal cases that I can think of that Harry and I were involved in where the criminal is still at large? No Dark Mark above the house? I don’t think this is anything like we’ve seen with him before.”

“So you’re saying we need to take a step back,” Robbards pondered, “think of this as any disappearance, rather than as the disappearance of Harry Potter in particular.”

“Exactly,” Ron said. 

Robbards smiled at him, a rare enough expression that Ron had a brief urge to lean away. “Excellent work, Auror Weasley.”

Ron blinked.

The Head Auror stood, folding the case file closed as he did so. “Quite right, we will be treating this as any other disappearance – I expect you to go join Auror Grey in interrogation directly. As you have rightly guessed, we will be bringing in Auror Potter’s family and friends for questioning, as well as Mr. Malfoy’s, exactly the same as with any other disappearance case.”

Ron stood. “I’m to be interrogated?” 

Robbards inclined his head. “Indeed. You will be the first. As I understand it, most of your family has already preliminarily agreed to be questioned under Veritaserum. Tell me, Auror Weasley, if I had let you on this case, do you think you could have questioned your wife, your brothers, your parents, without bias?”

Ron opened his mouth, and struggled to find a reply. “But – but surely you don’t think someone in my family was the one to –”

Robbards cut him off with a sharp glare. “That there, Auror Weasley, is precisely why you could not be on this case. I do not know whether anyone you know is involved in Auror Potter’s disappearance, but as you said, in most disappearances, the victim knows their kidnapper.”

Ron nodded wordlessly, unsure how to respond. 

“Now get to interrogation. I’ll expect you in my office tomorrow morning for debriefing on the questioning.”

Ron nodded, and did as told.

The questioning itself was unsurprising. Auror Grey asked similar questions to what he had asked Malfoy, with certain key differences (no love potions, for instance). By the end of it, Ron felt tired, useless, and was pretty sure the case hadn’t advanced more than it had before.

When he stepped out once it was over, feeling a bit off-kilter from the Veritaserum, he found Hermione sitting in the civilian waiting area, casually sipping a tea while flipping through an ancient-looking tome of some kind.

“’Mione!” he greeted, smiling. “What are you doing here?”

She smiled back, accepting a kiss on the cheek as he sat down next to her. “Probably same as you – questioning about Harry’s disappearance, yes?”

Ron nodded. “Not sure what they expect to find.”

She shrugged, “Sometimes the things we don’t think are important end up being the key to everything. Don’t you remember Nicholas Flamel?”

“Don’t remind me,” Ron groaned. “So much time wasted in that bloody library.”

His wife snorted. “Just because you have the attention span of a Kneazle –”

“Hey now!”

“Mrs. Granger-Weasley?” Auror Grey asked from the front of the room.

“Looks like that’s me,” she smiled at him, closing the tome and sending up a slight cloud of dust. “I’ll see you after work?”

Ron nodded. “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Once her bushy hair disappeared from sight, he levered himself out of the chair and headed back to his office. As he had suspected, Robbards hadn’t called off the paperwork, which was now overflowing from the in-tray on his desk. 

He sighed, sat, and got to work.

~>~>~>

The next morning, he woke up, for once, with Hermione’s frame curled into an apostrophe in the bed next to him. He had managed to drag her from her study to sleep in a bed, likely for the first time since Harry had disappeared. The only reason he suspected he had managed is because the Veritaserum had left her feeling fragile and she’d started crying when he had come to ask her to bed. Since crying and reading didn’t really seem compatible, he’d managed to coax her to come lie down, leaving an abandoned ward-magic book on the desk that looked to be written in Ancient Runic.

His wife was bloody brilliant, but sometimes he wished she could balance sleep and brilliance at the same time. Overtiredness wasn’t likely to save Harry either.

He moved carefully out of the bed, shifted the covers a little higher on her shoulders, and set about attempting to make breakfast. A chef he was not, but he could manage eggs.

The smell roused Hugo and Rose, who clambered up onto the bar stools at the counter and stared at him with sleep-crusted eyes beneath their messy hair. 

“Morning,” he greeted, setting eggs and toast in front of both of them. He scrubbed a hand through each of their hair. “Sleep well?”

“G’roff,” Hugo frowned through a mouthful of scrambled eggs, ever the morning grump.

Rose just giggled, and cut into her sunny-side-up.

Merlin, he loved his kids. He turned around to pour some pumpkin juice and set it next to their plates, before shuffling the rest of the eggs onto plates for him and Hermione. Hermione’s went under a Warming Charm – she needed all the sleep she could get.

“Dad,” Rose said, looking at him.

“Yeah, sweetheart?”

“When’s Uncle Harry coming back?”

It took a lot of effort to keep his smile on his face. “Soon, love, soon, okay?”

“He said he was going to take us to the zoo,” Hugo pointed out.

“And he will, don’t you worry,” Ron managed. “He’s just gotten a bit lost, and we’ve got to help him find his way back.”

“Like the time I got lost in Diagon Alley?” Rose asked. 

Merlin, what a day that had been. “Yes, just like that. I’m going to find him just like he found you.”

“Good,” Rose said, smiling and sunny again, and went back to her eggs.

Being a parent was a bit like riding one of those Muggle roller-whatsits sometimes. He shoveled some eggs in his mouth and looked at the time. “How do you two feel about going to Grandma’s today, huh?”

“Yeah!” Hugo exclaimed.

“Shhh,” Rose hushed him. “Mum’s sleeping!”

“Oh,” Hugo looked contrite. Then, whisper quiet but in the same excited tone: “Yeah!”

Ron chuckled. “Grandma’s it is. Eat up, I’ll go Floo her.” Half an hour later, kids had been shuffled off to the Burrow, pajamas and all, to Molly’s happy greetings and a “Don’t you worry, dear, you make sure Hermione gets some rest. I’ll Floo around noon to check in.”

Hermione normally worked from home except for when she was defending a major case, but he knew she’d taken time off when they’d heard about Harry. The benefits of owning the only creature’s law firm in Britain, he supposed. He set a note next to the Warming-Charmed breakfast plate, dropped a kiss on his sleeping wife’s forehead, and went to work.

Robbards was in his office when Ron got there, and looked up at the knock to his doorframe.

“Ah, Auror Weasley, good morning.”

“Morning, sir,” Ron replied. “You said you wanted to debrief me on the questioning?”

“Yes, come in, close the door, will you?”

Ron did, and sat across from him at the desk.

“Now, yesterday we were able to question Arthur, Molly, Charlie, George, Angelina, Percy, Penelope, Bill, Fleur, and Hermione Weasley, along with you. I understand Ginny Weasley is currently out of country practicing with the Holyhead Harpies as of yesterday morning, but her boyfriend Dean Thomas was able to answer questions which place her with Dean for all of the Sunday when Auror Potter disappeared. We also questioned Narcissa Malfoy, along with some house elves at Summerside Manor. Andromeda Tonks also answered some questions, as did her grandson Theodore, who I understand insisted despite being underage, being one of the last to see Auror Potter prior to his disappearance. The transcripts of their interrogations are here.” He flipped open a folder on his desk. “I’ll let you read them, but in summary, we have no more information than we did yesterday morning.”

Ron pulled the parchment towards himself. “All under Veritaserum?”

“Yes, other than the house elves, due to –”

“Being poisonous,” Ron continued, half paying attention as he skimmed through Teddy’s reply, including a part describing the Needletail broom Harry had bought him in Diagon Alley the day before he disappeared. Not particularly helpful, but sweet all the same.

“Can I take these?” Ron asked, glancing up.

Robbards waved him off. “Take them and get out of my office, Weasley. If you have any comments or things to add, make sure to let me know.”

Ron nodded, took the folder, and left, dismissal recognized.

His own office still felt gut-wrenchingly empty when he got there, but this time he had no qualms about ignoring his overflowing in-tray and pouring over the interrogation transcripts instead.

Certain phrases jumped out at him. Narcissa’s “I knew something was different, but I had no idea my son was dating Harry Potter, I just thought he’d gotten caught up in some new potion!” Teddy’s “He hugged me before he left, and that was the last time I saw him.” Mum’s “I only wish he’d told us sooner, that Malfoy boy is such a sweet young man.”

Nothing useful that he could find, nothing at all. But he kept reading them, over and over and over. Aurors dropped by his office to add further paper to his now-towering in-tray, but he ignored them beyond a quick greeting.

And so went the rest of his day.

And the next.

And the next.

By Friday, Ron was as sleep-deprived as his wife, each word of the transcripts branded indelibly to the inside of his skull, swirling in his mind every time he closed his eyes. There had to be _something_ , anything, that would lead them to Harry. It had been _twelve days_. Surely there was _something_.

Over breakfast, he ended up snapping at Hermione, “Haven’t any of your goddamn books turned anything up yet?”

The kids stopped chattering and looked up wide-eyed, and Ron immediately regretted his tone.

“Sorry. I’m sorry. That was –”

Hermione, who had looked about to snap back at him, softened a bit, despite the now-black circles beneath her eyes. “I’ve looked everywhere, Ron, but there just isn’t – there’s nothing to go on. Unless I can figure out the magic behind how Portkeys work, which no one’s managed since a thousand years ago when someone accidentally invented the first Portkey. Or if I could figure out how to trace magical signatures without the wand of the person whose signature it is. It’s – I’m grasping at straws.”

Ron put his head in his hands. “I know. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m sorry, ‘Mione.” 

“Are you mad at Mommy?” Hugo asked, lip trembling.

“No, no, sweetheart,” Hermione answered him. “Dad’s not mad. We’re just… worried, okay? Uncle Harry –” she paused, unsure how to explain.

“Uncle Harry’s been lost for a really long time, okay,” Ron managed, “Much longer than that time Rose got lost in Diagon Alley, and it’s taking us longer to find him. So we’re worried. Just worried. Not mad.”

Hugo and Rose looked at him uncertainly.

“I promise,” Ron affirmed. “Not mad, okay?”

“Okay,” Hugo said in a small voice.

“Drink your juice,” Ron told him, pushing the glass of pumpkin juice a little closer, and then stood up, taking his plate out of the dining room and over to the kitchen. He heard Hermione get up and follow him.

They both put their plates in the sink, and then ended up leaning against the counter, both staring out the window.

“We need to find him,” Hermione said. “I can feel it – something’s wrong.”

“I know,” Ron said quietly. “I can feel it too.”

“There’s got to be something – something we’re missing,” his wife frowned, knuckles whitening as she clenched the edge of the sink. 

“I’m going to see Malfoy today. It might not do anything, but he – he spent more time with Harry than the rest of us, lately.” A fact which made Ron’s chest feel tight, but a true fact nonetheless.

“It can’t hurt,” Hermione agreed.

Ron turned to her, leaning a hip against the counter. “I’m sorry for snapping.” He reached out an arm in her direction.

With a vaguely sad smile, she tucked herself under it, warm and soft against his chest. “I know. I miss him too.”

Over in the dining room, there was a sudden squeal followed by the sound of shattering glass. 

Hermione sighed. In the other room, Rose and Hugo started shouting at each other. 

“Go to work, Ron,” she said, leaning up for a kiss, which he gave. “I’ll go deal with our little brats.”

Ron winced. “Probably comes from my side of the family.”

Hermione shot a half-meant glare at him as she pulled away. “Oh, I know it did.”

Ron took that as a sign to retreat.

After a brief check in at the Auror office and getting permission from Robbards to check in on Malfoy, he Apparated himself away. 

Just as before, landing in a wildflower field with no manor in sight was no less disorienting. Glancing around until he finally caught sight of a warp in the wards reflecting light in the wrong direction, he made his way towards where he thought the front gate might have been. 

Tentatively, he raised his wand and pushed a bit at the wards, once, twice, and then a third time, like knocking.

For a long moment, absolutely nothing happened, and then the wards shimmered and faded to show the gate – several meters over but fairly close to where he had been knocking. He walked over, and the gate swung open before he got there, leaving an open path up past the gardens and hedges and peacocks (and bloody private Quidditch pitch) up to the front door. 

Before he could even knock, the door swung open and revealed a tiny house elf wearing a very clean pink handkerchief, tied at the waist with ribbon and decorated at the edges with lace.

“Lacy be welcoming Master Weasley,” she squeaked. “Lacy be taking Master to the main parlour.”

‘Main’ parlour, Ron thought. Who had enough parlours to need to differentiate them, anyway? He followed the elf regardless.

The inside of the manor was just as opulent as the outside, full of portraits and delicate tables and magical ornaments, chandeliers that cast rippling rainbows on the walls and carpets so plush he felt like he was walking on a cloud. He vaguely wondered whether Harry would be marrying up.

The ‘main’ parlour was empty when they got there, and Lacy got him seated on one of the couches.

“Would Master be wanting anything to drink?”

“No, that’s fine,” Ron told her. “Thank you, Lacy.”

Lacy flushed as pink as her kerchief, curtsied, and then vanished with a pop as elves are wont to do. 

The parlour was just as opulent as the hallways he’d walked through to get there, with a massive fireplace that looked large enough that one could Floo through without having to stoop down in the slightest. A large portrait hung over the mantle, but it was empty, its occupant having left the frame for better pastures, evidently. The windows looked out onto a lush rose garden, and even the couch he was sitting on felt expensive, layered with permanent cushioning charms and decorated with a pattern that seemed to use quite a lot of gold thread.

Ron felt very out of place. At least he was wearing his Auror robes and not some six-year-old Christmas sweater, he supposed.

As he inspected the thread in the couch – surely it wasn’t real gold, right? – he caught the sound of Lacy’s squeaky voice, accompanied by light footsteps. 

Moments later, the doors to the parlour swung open, revealing white-blonde hair and aristocratic features.

“Malfoy,” Ron greeted brightly, weirdly glad to see him, and then paused, standing slowly. Because Malfoy wasn’t alone.

Blaise Zabini had his arm wrapped tight around the blond’s waist, leaning close so that his mouth was almost touching one ear, while Malfoy smiled slightly at whatever he was saying. He turned, likely to answer, and the movement put Malfoy’s lips almost on Zabini’s.

Something in Ron snapped.

“What _is_ this?” the red-head thundered, startling the pair slightly apart, though Zabini’s arm stayed wrapped around Malfoy’s waist. 

Ron strode around the couch towards them, feeling the tips of his ears burning red. “Harry’s been gone for less than two weeks, and you’re – you’re –”

As he spoke, Malfoy seemed to retreat closer to Zabini, hair brushing against the other Slytherin’s broad shoulder.

“You _bloody git_! Are you _cheating_ on him? Harry could be –”

“No!” Malfoy cut him off, paling. “I would _never_ –”

Then his knees went out from under him. Surprised, Zabini barely managed to catch the blond as he fell.

That brought Ron up short. “What –” He flung himself forward to steady the two men as Zabini failed to handle Malfoy’s suddenly dead weight and started toppling towards the floor.

“I would _never_ ,” Malfoy insisted somewhat weakly, as they settled him to sit on the floor, only upright by grace of Zabini’s arm around him.

“What’s wrong?” Ron asked, staring at him. Anger gone, he felt as if a veil had lifted from his eyes. The blond was so pale he looked almost translucent, and from where Ron’s hand circled his arm, he could tell that the man was unnaturally thin.

“I’m just feeling a bit under the weather,” Malfoy snapped, pulling his arm out of Ron’s grasp and attempting to lever himself upright. “Help me up.”

Neither Ron nor Zabini made a move to assist him, and a second later, his arm shook and he fell back against Zabini’s shoulder.

“Mate,” Ron said slowly. “How long have you been like this?”

“I had to help him walk here,” Zabini spoke up for the first time.

“Shut it, Blaise. I’m _fine_ , Weasley. Stop being such a bloody Gryffindor,” Malfoy grumbled, trying again to push himself out of Zabini’s grasp.

“Sure I will,” Ron agreed readily. “Just as soon as you prove to me you can actually get up on your own.”

The former Slytherin glared at him. “Fine!” he snapped, and shrugged himself away from his supports, pushing against the floor with both hands.

For a brief second, he managed to make it his feet. “There, see, I’m –” He took a wobbling step and collapsed against the side of the sofa. 

Zabini and Ron scrambled to grab him as he began to slide back to the floor, before half-carrying him and lying him down on the cushions.

“Was that really necessary?” Zabini asked Ron, glaring. “Draco, are you alright?”

“I – I am possibly more ill than I thought,” the blond managed, voice weak. 

“You need to go to Saint Mungo's,” Ron opined, taking in the sweat beading against the man’s hairline and the way one of his hands was pressed tight against his heart, as if trying to keep it from beating out of his chest. 

“I’ve been telling him that all morning,” Zabini agreed.

“I’m fine,” Malfoy insisted again. He fixed his gaze on Ron. “I can’t believe you think I’d cheat on Harry,” he accused angrily. He struggled slightly, and managed to get himself seated in a more upright position against the arm of the sofa. “I would _never_.” He slashed a hand in Ron’s direction. “ _Never_! Do you understand?” 

“Hey now, it was just –” Ron tried, but the anger seemed to have given Malfoy a second wind.

The blond forced himself up and shoved his legs over the side of the sofa, eyes blazing. 

Ron reached out, put both hands on his shoulders, unwilling to let the man stand in his condition. Malfoy’s reaction to the touch was sudden and violent. He shoved his palm into Ron’s sternum, and there was a sound like Apparition, before the redhead was thrown viciously across the room. 

Zabini shouted wordlessly as Ron crashed through a potted plant and felt his skull connect with the wall. 

“Draco!”

Disoriented, Ron struggled to his feet, potting soil running in little avalanches down his robes, head throbbing. For a second, he couldn’t see Malfoy or Zabini at all. Stumbling forward, he caught himself against the edge of the living room table he’d turned onto its side as he was thrown back.

When he leaned forward and looked down over the edge, it was to see Zabini roughly shaking Malfoy’s shoulders.

“Draco!” 

Unresponsive, the blond collapsed back on the ground like a ragdoll as soon as Zabini’s hands let go. 

Ron’s last thought, before the black at the edge of his vision took him, was this: _Harry’s going to kill me_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here, have a very long chapter as compensation for the very long wait. Not gonna lie, I'm hoping to write the rest of this story in the next week before tax season steals me away again.


	6. Sentiens Igni

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> St. Mungo's struggles to deal with the after-effects of Harry Potter's disappearance.

Ron came to as soon as the Floo spat him, Zabini and Malfoy out into Saint Mungo’s main lobby. His head was killing him, and the strange lightness from Zabini’s Levitation Charm wasn’t helping him get his bearings in the slightest. 

A Mediwizard rushed forward and took him off Zabini’s hands, cancelling the Charm and settling Ron on a conjured stretcher. In his peripheral, Ron could see other wizards doing the same with Malfoy, whose arm had slipped off the stretcher and hung limply off the edge.

“What happened?” one of the attendants barked.

“Draco just collapsed,” Zabini snapped, “and that one’s got a head injury. For Salazar’s sake, stop dawdling and do something!”

Ron’s stretcher started moving and the lurch made his stomach rebel violently. Swallowing bile, he managed, “My wife, can someone please contact my wife.”

“We will, sir. Now, can you look at me? What’s your name?”

“Ronald Weasley,” he managed, blinking in the face of a very bright Lumos charm. 

“Good, good, now where does it hurt?”

“Feels like I took a Bludger to the head.”

“Quite right, I’d say you have a mighty fine concussion.” The light faded, though the wand stayed, and Ron looked away as the fast wand movements started to make him feel even more dizzy. 

“We’ll get you some potions to stop the swelling and drop the nausea and you’ll be just fine, Mr. Weasley.” 

The stretcher stopped moving as they reached wherever they were supposed to be going, and the Mediwizard bustled off, then came back, holding tellingly clinking vials in hand. A wave of his wand had the stretcher pushing Ron into a sitting position.

“Here you are – drink up!”

The lip of a vial was held to Ron’s mouth, and he gulped down something utterly disgusting. Gagging, he would nearly have thrown it right up, had the Mediwizard not immediately poured something sweet and minty down his throat that had the nausea vanishing like a startled Demiguise. 

Blinking, Ron ran his tongue over his teeth, head suddenly clear. “Wow.”

“How are you feeling?” The Medi…. Mediwitch – Merlin, how out of it had he been – asked.

“Way better,” Ron told her, sitting up.

The Mediwitch smiled. “Good, now it looks like you just rattled your noggin a bit, so you should be right as rain now, but if you have anything beyond a slight headache, you’re to come right back, alright?”

“Alright,” Ron replied, a bit bewildered by how fast it had all been. “That’s it?”

“Concussions are easy work, Mr. Weasley. Now I understand you wanted to contact your wife?”

“Yeah, Hermione – she’ll want to – Wait!” Ron’s memory suddenly returned. “What happened to Malfoy? Is he alright?”

“The man you came in with? I believe he was taken to Spell Damage.”

Ron scrambled off the stretcher, sending a small cloud of potting soil puffing out around his ankles. “Harry’s going to _kill_ me.” He set out at a run.

“Wait –” the Mediwitch called after him. “Remember,” she shouted, as he rounded a corner, “Anything more than a headache and you come back, do you hear?!”

Ron barely paid attention, ripping his wand out of its wrist-holster. “Expecto Patronum!” His Jack Russel Terrier bounded out of the end of his wand, and he sent it off to Hermione with a strong flick, skidding down the hallway. A sign told him that he was on the ground floor, “Reception and Artefact Accidents”, as he slid through a set of lift doors that had been just about to close, startling the Healer in lime green who already occupied it.

He punched the button for Floor Four much harder than was likely necessary, barely noticing that it was already lit up.

As the lift began moving, the Healer asked, “Are you quite alright?” 

Ron glanced at him. “Yeah, it’s just, my – friend.”

The Healer nodded sagely. “Well, do try not to run in the hallways. It wouldn’t do to end up back on the ground floor.”

The lift doors clicked open, and Ron was off at a run again without much heed for the wizard’s words, stopping only when the edge of the Spell Damage reception counter caught him against the ribs.

“Draco Malfoy,” he told the receptionist, breathing hard.

The witch frowned at him. “Is that your name or –” 

“No, he’s here, I’m looking for him,” Ron waved his hand at her. “Where is he?”

She flipped through a few pages of the enchanted log book in front of her, slowly enough that Ron had to quell the urge to pull it out of her hands. Finally, she stopped with her wand on the page. “It looks as if Mister Malfoy is in Emergency Healing. I’m afraid you won’t be able to see him now.”

“What? Emergency Healing?” Ron barked. “What’s wrong with him?!”

The witch looked offended. “If you’re going to shout at me like the last one, I’ll have you removed as well.”

“Removed?” Ron asked, and then glanced around at the waiting room. Largely empty, and Zabini was tellingly absent. “No,” he dropped his voice to a quieter level. “No, that won’t be necessary. Is there – is there somewhere I can wait?”

The witch rolled her eyes and gestured at the many chairs surrounding the reception desk. 

“Right, yeah, thank you.” He stepped away from the desk and folded himself into one of the chairs. Merlin, Emergency Healing? That really wasn’t good.

Suddenly, the lift dinged and spat out a large crowd of people into the waiting area. Most of them sported rather brightly-coloured hair.

“Ron!” Hermione cried out, shouldering her way through the group of Weasleys. “You’re okay!”

The receptionist did not look pleased by the volume, but Ron was too busy standing up and moving towards his wife. “Of course I’m okay –”

Unlike the hug he’d been expecting, Hermione delivered a sharp slap to his shoulder. “You had me so worried!” she shouted at him. “Saint Mungo’s! Spell Damage! What kind of Patronus message is that, you nitwit!”

She slapped his shoulder again.

“Ow! Hey, I’m sorry! I was recovering from a concussion!”

“A concussion!” She didn’t slap him this time, thank Merlin. “Are you alright? Have you taken the potions yet? Do you need anything?”

“No, I’m fine!” Ron reassured, holding out a placating hand.

She deflated, relieved, and then straightened again. “Then why are we here? What’s happened?”

Ron looked at her, and then at the small circle of family that had surrounded them during their slight argument, Mum and Dad and George and Charlie, looking relieved and yet worried at once.

“It’s Malfoy,” he told them. “Something’s wrong. He collapsed at the manor. They’ve got him in Emergency Healing.”

“Oh dear,” Molly said, frowning. “Has anyone told his mother?”

Ron blinked, as it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. “No, Zabini, Malfoy’s friend, was here but he got kicked out by the receptionist.” Said receptionist shot him a nasty look. “Someone should probably Floo her.”

“I will,” Molly said decisively, taking Arthur’s hand and heading back to the lift.

“He collapsed?” Hermione asked, once they were gone. “What happened, Ron?”

“He’s really sick, tired, could barely stand. And I might’ve –” He swallowed, “I-might’ve-accused-him-of-cheating-on-Harry.”

“You what?” Hermione questioned, frowning. “Ron…”

“It made sense at the time, alright!” Ron defended. “He was all cozy with Zabini and… never mind. Look, I said something stupid, he got upset, and he did some kind of… wandless magic. Threw me into the wall. But it did something weird and he was unconscious after. Zabini brought both of us here.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Hermione worried, biting her lip. “And Emergency Healing –”

“Harry’s going to kill us if anything happens to him,” Ron said.

“Don’t think like that,” Charlie spoke up, clapping him on the shoulder. “He’s at Saint Mungo’s, they have some of the best Healers in the world here.”

“He should know,” George pointed out. “He’s had more than his fair share of dragon-related injuries.”

Ron snorted. Fair point. 

“We should sit,” Hermione told them. “The receptionist looks… unhappy.”

The witch at the desk was indeed giving them the evil eye, so the group moved over to a huddle of chairs and sat. 

After a moment of silence, Hermione spoke up. “When he threw you into the wall, what was it like?”

“Painful,” Ron answered honestly.

His wife rolled her eyes. “I meant the way he threw you into the wall. The magic, what did it feel like?”

Ron thought about it. “Wild, uncontrolled. A bit like that time Hugo blew up the oven when he didn’t want to eat baked beans.”

Hermione worried at her lip. “That sounds like another _sentiens igni_ reaction.”

That sounded familiar. “You’ve talked about that before – the day Harry disappeared,” he remembered. “What’s _centy igny_?”

“ _Sent-i-ens ig-ni_ , Ronald,” Hermione sighed. “We learned about it in sixth year?”

Ron raised an eyebrow at her. She rolled her eyes. Charlie and George looked at them like they were watching a high-speed Quidditch match.

“It’s like – well, you know how kids have accidental magic?” Ron nodded. “That’s because their magic cores haven’t fully developed, so they end up with all of this magic sort of floating around inside of them. Because they haven’t learned to harness it and control it, it ends up taking on a life of its own. Becoming _sentient_ , if you will, and taking on the kid’s emotions. That’s where accidental magic comes in. The child gets excited or scared, and the magic lashes out.”

“Makes sense,” Ron agreed.

“But it can also happen with adults.”

Ron frowned. “But I thought that once the magical core fully develops, accidental magic becomes impossible.”

“And that’s true,” Hermione agreed, “for most people. But there are cases where a wizard’s magical core never fully develops. Such as when they’re exposed to Dark magic as a child. The Dark magic feeds on the child, and so their core never develops to the extent that they need it to.”

Ron was beginning to see where this was going. “Like Harry. With the Horcrux. When it was gone –”

“– he ended up with a bunch of magic that his core had never had deal with before,” Hermione finished. 

Ron remembered that quite well, all the Healers and trainers Harry had needed to see after the war, trying to learn to control the magic that his body had always had and never been able to use because it had been feeding a piece of Voldemort’s soul. “But that was because of the whatsits, the… clostri?”

He could practically hear her roll her eyes. “ _Claustra_ , Ron, _claustra_. The magic barriers.”

“Yes, those. I was close, alright,” he defended himself. George snorted on the sidelines and Ron shot him a quick glare.

“Sure, Ron,” Hermione allowed, somewhat fondly. “Anyways, the lack of claustra in an underdeveloped magical core ends up having a similar effect as accidental magic in a child. The uncontrolled magic, called _sentiens igni_ , takes on a life of its own, and will react to the adult’s emotions unless they learn to keep it in check. They have to train their magical core to develop, rather than having the core grow naturally to match their magic.”

“But what does that have to do with Malfoy? He didn’t exactly have a Horcrux in his skull,” Ron pointed out.

“No, but he did have at least one Horcrux in his house growing up – the diary, and Merlin knows what else. There’s a reason they demolished Malfoy manor,” she reminded him. “But that’s not the point. The point is that we know Malfoy was trained to control his magic. He’s a Potions Master – you can’t possibly work with potions at that level and not know how to keep accidental magic from happening, it’d be incredibly dangerous. And we’ve seen him channel it into powerful wandless magic. He can control it, and his magical core should be more than developed enough to handle his sentiens igni except in situations of extreme emotion.”

“But today didn’t seem controlled at all,” Ron noted. “And he was angry, but he wasn’t _that_ angry. He’s been more emotional at the Burrow.”

“That’s exactly it,” Hermione declared, nodding. “If he can’t control it now, that means something is seriously wrong with his magical core.”

“And what does that mean?” Charlie asked, leaning forward in his chair to join the conversation. “What would cause that?”

Hermione sighed, and ran a hand through her hair. “I honestly have no idea. But I would bet that this is why he’s in Emergency Healing. Problems with your magical core… they’re never good.”

And with that pronouncement, the four of them fell silent, glancing towards the double doors that lead out of the waiting area. Presumably, somewhere behind them was Malfoy.

After a few minutes, something occurred to Ron. “Hey, if you’re all here, who’s watching the kids?”

“Angelina,” George spoke up. “She’ll have her hands full with all of them but the older ones will help keep them in check.”

“Good,” Ron said. “Good.” Bloody hell, this day was turning into a nightmare, but at least the kids were spared it. And man, his head hurt. Hopefully that was just the “slight headache” the Mediwitch had talked about and not something that meant he should be headed to the ground floor. He really didn’t want to drink that disgusting potion again.

After several more long minutes of waiting, which he spent tracing the lines on Hermione’s palm, which he could likely draw from memory after all these years of holding her hands, the lift dinged to signal a new arrival.

A tall, blonde figure strode out as soon as the doors opened, elegant robes flowing out behind her. “Where is my son?” Narcissa Malfoy asked the welcome-witch, in a deadly-quiet voice.

“Name?” the witch asked.

“Draco Malfoy.”

As if the name hadn’t been the last one she had looked up, the receptionist began to, again, flip slowly through the log book on her desk. As Mum and Dad moved across the room to come sit with them, Ron could practically see the tension in the Malfoy matron’s shoulders drawing tighter and tighter with every flip of the parchment.

“Ah, here he is,” she said. “Currently in Emergency Healing. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until he’s released.”

“Who is the Healer overseeing his care?” Narcissa snapped. “I would speak to him immediately.”

The witch huffed. “Healer Fenwick is currently –”

The double doors leading into the waiting room suddenly swung open, and a wizard in bright lime green robes strode through purposefully. “Family of Draco Malfoy?” he demanded.

“Here,” Narcissa answered immediately, and Ron and his family rose as well. Once they were gathered, the Healer cast a quick privacy charm over the group.

“Which of you can contact Mr. Malfoy’s bondmate?” the Healer asked sharply, once the spell had set.

“Sorry, what?” Ron asked.

“His _bonded_ ,” Healer Fenwick snapped. “Are they here? They need to be summoned immediately.”

“My son is not bonded to anyone, Healer,” Narcissa answered, pursing her lips.

“Mr. Malfoy is very much bonded,” the Healer corrected, frowning, “in a highly powerful and highly _illegal_ , might I add, _Medipar Cordis_ bond.”

“But that – that’s impossible,” Narcissa insisted, “I would know if my son had undergone a bonding ceremony.”

“I’m afraid there’s no question about it – Mrs. Malfoy, is it?” The Healer took out his wand and waved it intricately, until an image began to appear in front of him. “This is Mr. Malfoy’s _highly overtaxed_ magical core, you can see the underdeveloped claustra,” He pointed at the dimly glowing sphere in the middle of the image, encased by what Ron suddenly realized were rib bones. “This –” the Healer gestured and the image enlarged, showing more detail, before pointing at a golden band wrapped throughout the sphere, “is a _Medipar Cordis_ bond. Now I’ll ask again – _where is Mr. Malfoy’s bonded_?”

“Well, it’s Harry, isn’t it?” Ron spoke up, staring at the gold band. “It has to be, doesn’t it?”

“Harry?” the Healer asked. “Well then, contact him! He needs to come here immediately.”

“But we can’t,” Hermione told him, biting her lip.

“And why not –” the Healer snapped.

“Harry Potter,” Ron interrupted him. “His bondmate is Harry Potter.”

Healer Fenwick gaped at him momentarily, and then swore rather violently, evidently up to date on Harry’s disappearance in the Daily Prophet. “You’re kidding?”

“No, no, I’m really not,” Ron told him, frowning.

The Healer swore again, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not good. Are you familiar with a Medipar Cordis bond?” Not even Hermione spoke up. “No? They’re illegal for a _reason_. They tie magical cores together, let them feed off each other, support each other. Extremely strong when together. But separation, especially with a new bond, which his is, can have devastating effects.”

“What kind of effects?” Narcissa demanded.

“Fatigue, illness, collapse of the magical core, eventual _death_ ,” the Healer snapped at her, and then sighed at her horrified expression. “I apologize, that wasn’t well done of me. It’s just – I can’t do anything if we don’t have the bondmate. He _needs_ his bondmate. The Stasis Spell will only negate the effects for so long. There are _reasons_ Medipar Cordis bonds are outlawed!”

“Is there a possibility that the bond occurred naturally?” Hermione asked timidly.

“No –” the Healer paused and frowned at her, and then turned to the image still hanging in the air between them, slowly turning. He spread his hands again, and the image expanded drastically, until only the dim glowing sphere at the centre was visible, snaked through with gold. He moved his hands again, and suddenly the only thing that remained was a fragment of the golden band, now looking more like a… braid, now that it had been expanded. 

“You’re right,” the Healer said, frowning. “See here, these are the magical signatures of the bondmates.” He pointed to nothing in particular that Ron could see in the mass of gold, but Hermione nodded. “Normally, you’d see a third signature, with a normal bonding ceremony. The witch or wizard who performs the bonding leaves a trace of their own signature. That’s absent here.” 

The wizard swayed back from where he’d been leaning over the projection. “That makes the rapid devolution more understandable,” he muttered, not seeming to be speaking to anyone in particular. Then his eyes snapped to Ron’s. “You _need_ to find Mr. Potter,” he said. 

“We’re trying,” Ron said, past the sudden lump in his throat.

Suddenly, Hermione stepped back from the projection, which she had been inspecting avidly. “I need to got to the library.”

“What?” Ron managed, catching her hand as she shoved her way out of the group.

Behind them, Narcissa began making rapid demands of the Healer, voice increasing in volume, and when Ron glanced back, Healer Fenwick had cancelled the projection and the privacy ward and was leading the group towards the double doors that would take them out of the waiting area.

“Hermione –” 

“I’ve thought of something,” she said excitedly, grasping his hand. “I have to go to the library.” She leaned up and gave him a quick kiss, and then bounded away towards the elevator. “Don’t wait up for me!”

“Hermione!” He called after her, but she was already in the lift before he could take a step forward. Glancing back at the group now leaving the waiting room, his moment of indecision was enough time for the lift doors to close and shoot down and back towards the ground floor.

“Ron,” Mum called from near the doors, “Healer Fenwick says we can see him now.”

Decision made, he joined the group and they were led down a series of hallways, before stopping in front of a heavy oak door with a silver plaque reading “Room 589” on it. 

“Now, he’s incredibly fragile,” the Healer informed them. “I’ll have to ask you to leave your wands outside the room – any magic could prove detrimental to the stability of the Stasis Charm.”

“Leave our wands?” Charlie parroted, looking as if he’d been asked to cut off his own arm.

“You’re also welcome to wait outside,” the Healer informed him, and then tapped his wand against the door. A part of the wood panel opened up, revealing a series of clips of a size to hold a wand. Narcissa immediately removed her wand from its holster in her sleeve and offered it to the door, which locked in place around it.

“It’s keyed to your magical signature,” the Healer informed them. “They’ll be perfectly safe.”

“Alright,” George shrugged, and did the same. The others followed suit, and as Ron surrendered his wand as well, the panel closed over the wands and then the door clicked open. 

Narcissa rushed in, heading towards the bed where her son lay, pale and comatose, encased in the soft glow of the Stasis Charm. The rest followed, but before Ron could join them, Healer Fenwick placed a hand on his shoulder, catching his attention.

“Auror Weasley – how long as Auror Potter been missing?”

“Twelve days,” Ron answered him.

The Healer’s expression turned grim. “Only that long? …You should know – that Mr. Malfoy is fading so fast, only twelve days after separation from his bondmate? It isn’t good.”

Ron stared at him, waiting for him to go on.

Healer Fenwick obliged, “What I mean is – if Mr. Malfoy is this bad off, not even two weeks after the disappearance… then something is _very_ wrong with Harry Potter’s health. _Very wrong_ indeed.”

Ron’s heart panged at the thought. “More than just the bond separation effects?”

“He’ll be feeling those too,” the Healer noted, “But Mr. Malfoy’s symptoms are far too extensive to be explained by a Medipar Cordis separation, not even a naturally occurring one. If I had to guess, I’d say that the rapid weight loss is a mirrored symptom of Malfoy’s bondmate’s current state, not a result of stretched bond syndrome.”

“Harry’s losing weight?”

“And probably worse,” the Healer agreed, squeezing Ron’s shoulder. “You should know, Mr. Malfoy’s blood levels were dangerously low when he first arrived. I nearly sent him off to the first floor, suspected a vampire attack, before I scanned his core. He’s had Blood-Replenishing potions, but if it’s another mirrored symptom…”

“Harry’s losing blood,” Ron rasped, feeling ill.

Healer Fenwick nodded. “I’m sorry to push this on you, but if it can help the investigation into Mr. Potter’s disappearance at all… He saved my daughter’s life, you know? She was at Hogwarts during the Great Battle, and he deflected a curse she would have taken. I want to help.”

Ron nodded, unable to speak past the lump of lead which seemed to have settled in his throat. 

The Healer inclined his head understandingly, squeezed the redhead’s shoulder one last time, and then bustled past him into the room.

Once he’d gone, Ron sagged back into the door frame, watching the wizard speak to his family and Mrs. Malfoy without hearing a word he was saying. Instead, he stared at Malfoy (Harry’s _bondmate_ , some part of his brain recognized) where he lay on the sickbed.

Pale, unnaturally thin, and colorless save for the slightly bluish glow of the Stasis Charm, the unconscious wizard looked, for all intents and purposes, like a corpse.

Ron closed his eyes against the sudden sting of tears, head still throbbing.

“Harry,” he whispered to no one, “Where are you?”


	7. Revelation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The calm before the storm.

The next afternoon found Ron sitting at the desk in Hermione’s study, pouring, yet again, over all the notes, pictures, testimonies and transcripts that the Aurors had gathered on Harry’s disappearance that he’d taken home from the office. He’d attempted to visit Malfoy that morning, only to be told by the bloody welcome witch that he was not _blood family_ and therefore would not be permitted to visit Malfoy’s room. Never mind that Harry was basically family and that by extension, his bondmate was practically a Weasley – goddamned wizards and their obsession with blood connections.

With the ghost of a headache still resting on his skull, he’d managed to relay the new developments to Robbards after leaving the hospital on Friday, before taking the day off. With Hermione nowhere to be found, he needed to be able to watch the kids, and the empty office that he and Harry normally shared was too painful after the revelations by Healer Fenwick anyways. 

Now it was Saturday (the _thirteenth day_ since Harry vanished), his wife hadn’t returned from wherever she’d gone the day before, not even to sleep, and he felt sick with worry. Worried about Hermione. Worried about Harry. Worried about Draco, and when did the man even become _Draco_ anyways.

He flipped back to the picture of Teddy and Harry the day before his disappearance. The dark-haired wizard grinned out of the image, before he turned towards his godson and scrubbed a hand through Teddy’s unruly copy-cat hair, making the boy laugh.

Letting the picture flutter back to the desk, Ron dropped his head to his hands, a burning sensation taking up residence behind his eyelids. There was nothing. No leads, nothing. The case file might as well have been the hibernation bedding for a Blast-Ended Skrewt, for all the use it was.

“Daddy?” a small voice asked from the study’s doorway.

“Yeah?” Ron tried to keep his voice light, but it cracked halfway through. 

Hugo made his way into the room, dragging his large stuffed bear, and reached for Ron’s hand. Rose stayed behind in the doorway. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Ron managed, swinging his son up into his lap and making a strong attempt to pretend that the water in his eyes didn’t exist. 

Hugo hugged arms around his Dad’s neck and hung on. “You’re lying,” he whispered, tucking his head under Ron’s chin. 

Ron kissed the top of his head and held out a hand for Rose, who walked cautiously across the study and took it, tucking her tiny frame into his side as he lifted her onto the wide office chair as well.

“When’s Mommy coming home?” Rose asked, playing with the hem of her dress.

“Soon, sweetheart,” Ron told her. “Really soon.” He managed to get himself under control, blinking back the tears that had never made it to his cheeks and swallowing the lump in his throat.

“Hey, how do you two feel about going to get ice cream?” he tried. 

Hugo leaned back and looked at him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Really,” Ron promised.

Rose and Hugo looked at each other. Rose shrugged, “I want strawberry.”

“Chocolate!” Hugo declared.

Ron grinned, sensing an opportunity. “What’s that I hear? You want garlic and bacon flavoured ice cream?”

The two kids made identical horrified faces and shouted in unison, “Daddy!”

Ron chuckled, and helped both of them down to the floor before standing. “I know, I know. Bertie Bott’s beans were bad enough before they introduced the ice cream flavours.”

“Gross,” Rose agreed, sticking out her tongue.

“Aright, go get your shoes, we’re going to Diagon Alley.”

Both lit up and then scampered off, giggling and shouting as they did so. As soon as both had left the room, Ron sagged, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Losing it in the safety of the study was one thing. But in front of the kids? Merlin, he was terrible at this. 

He took a deep breath, gathered the tattered remains of his Gryffindor courage, and set off to locate his own shoes. 

An hour later, he was settled under an umbrella outside Fortescue’s ice cream parlour, trying and failing to wipe chocolate ice cream off Hugo’s forehead. His son had insisted on one of the largest ice cream sizes that the parlour had available. Ron himself had opted for the smallest, knowing quite well that he’d be the one finishing off Hugo’s once the boy got tired of it. Rose, on the other hand, had chosen a more sensible ice cream size, and was spooning it out carefully, kicking her little feet back and forth as she glanced around at the busy street, eyes often drifting to the second-hand bookshop nearby. Took after her mother, that one.

Ice-creamed forehead abandoned as a lost cause, Ron put down the napkin and took another bite of his own frozen treat. Diagon Alley was alight with activity, this close to the school year starting again. He had a fair few years before his own kids would joint the bustle, but it was strangely comforting to see. Parents rushing by with grinning children in newly-fitted school robes. Wizards and witches carrying newly-adopted owls and cats and rats. Eleven-year-olds carrying newly-bought wands out of Olivander’s with unconcealed awe. 

“Can we go to Wheezes?” Hugo asked, waving his hand around and smearing another streak of chocolate on his cheekbone. 

“But I want to go to the bookshop!” Rose exclaimed, pouting and pointing at the store next door.

“How about we do both?” Ron compromised. That settled them down, and both returned to eating their ice cream. Sure enough, a few bites after Rose finished hers, Hugo pushed his own over to his Dad.

“I’m not hungry anymore,” he said, making a face.

“You’ve got eyes bigger than your stomach,” Ron told him, just to see his slightly bewildered expression, and then finished off the rest in a few big bites. “Alright, we’ll go to Rose’s bookshop first, and then we’ll go see Uncle George.”

Hugo pouted a bit at the order of affairs, but once they were inside the bookshop, he was thoroughly distracted by a set of old editions of _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Mad Muggle_. Definitely took after him, that one.

Rose, on the other hand, wandered off into the crowd of schoolkids, and came back with what Ron suspected were probably first-year Hogwarts textbooks. He vaguely wondered how much more brilliant Hermione would have been if she’d had access to this stuff at Rose’s age, rather than having to start it all at eleven. A second later, he decided he didn’t want to know. His wife was already scarily brilliant as it was.

Books bought and tucked safely into a bag looped over Ron’s forearm, he led the kids down the Alley towards the brightest colored shop on the block. Weasleys’ Wizards Wheezes had outdone itself for the back-to-school rush, fireworks popping overhead and brightly coloured advertisements flashing in all the windows, all the better to lure in bored kids and parents who were tired of looking for required potions ingredients.

Hugo started jumping up and down, pulling on Ron’s arm, as soon as the shop came into view. “Wheezes! Wheezes!”

“Yeah, kiddo,” Ron agreed, “Uncle George sure knows how to put on a good show.”

The inside of the shop, once they got there, was just as bright and hectic and loud as the outside had been. After a few minutes of wandering, George popped around a corner and grinned at them.

“Well, isn’t it my favourite niece and nephew!” he cried, stooping down to gather both of the kids in a hug. Ron would suspect favouritism, if he didn’t already know that George greeted all of the kids as his “favourite”.

“Come on,” George exclaimed, grinning, “We’ve got a whole new set of puffskeins that you’ve got to see.”

Rose lit up like a Lumos Charm. “More Puffs?” 

“Yep! These ones are blue,” George said, taking both her and Hugo by the hand. “This way!”

Ron rolled his eyes and followed. Never mind that his daughter already had a poffle of Pygmy Puffs back at home named Fluff, Ruff, Stuff and Puff. He wondered what this one would be called: Huff, maybe?

He let George lead the kids through the store, weaving past the large baskets of variants of Skiving Snackboxes, cases of trick wands, and endless shelves of prank candy. Minutes later, Rose was cooing over a tiny blue puffskein with brighter blue polka dots, while George distracted Hugo by demonstrating a set of Exploding Snap cards that seemed to occasionally turn invisible, which would certainly make the game more complicated. 

“Daddy, can I have one?” Rose begged, staring up with big eyes, holding out the tiny blue puffball.

Ron sighed. “Sure, sweetheart, what’s this one’s name?” 

“Muff!” she insisted. Eh, he’d been close.

He leaned over towards his brother. “This one’s female as well?” he muttered in George’s good ear.

“Yeah, no risk of baby puffskeins and weird conversations, I promise,” George answered, just as quietly.

Ron nodded. “Muff it is!”

“I want these,” Hugo insisted, holding out what looked like thin air but was probably the invisible Exploding Snap cards.

“What do I owe you?” Ron asked, reaching for his wallet. 

“No charge for my favourite niece and nephew,” George winked. “Though if you want anything –”

“Yeah, yeah,” Ron rolled his eyes, “I pay full price.”

His brother laughed at him. “Do you want to come upstairs for a visit? Angelina’s in and I’m sure Freddie would love the company.”

“Sure,” the younger Weasley shrugged.

“Alright – Hey, Lee!” George shouted across the store. “I’m taking off!”

“Kay!” Lee shouted back from somewhere in the depths of schoolchildren. “Verity and I will hold the fort!”

“Come on,” the entrepreneur told him, leading them behind the till where Verity, the shop’s long-time employee, was ringing up a purchase of a love potion with a bored expression. They popped through a door into the back, where Silencing Charms made the bustle of the shop vanish.

“George, is that you?” Angelina called from up the stairs.

“Yeah!” George answered her. “I’ve got Ron and the kids with me!”

A tiny redhead appeared at the top of the stairs. “Hugo! Rose! Come see! Dad got me a toy broom!”

Ron’s children bolted up the stairs towards Fred Junior and vanished into the flat where George and his family lived, the two adults following at a more sedate pace. Angelina greeted them at the top, drying her hands on a dishcloth over her heavily pregnant belly. 

“You’re glowing,” Ron told her, perfectly honest. 

She made a face at him, brushing her dark braided hair over her shoulder. “I don’t feel it,” she complained. “I can’t even manage the stairs anymore, have to Floo everywhere. And this one won’t make me a lift.”

“The baby’s due in like three weeks, Angie, you know I’d –” He paused at her expression. “I’ll… I’ll get on that right away, love?”

“Damn right you will,” Angelina grumbled, moving towards the kitchen with a hand protectively on her belly. “How you convinced me to do this again I’ll never know.”

George shot a wide-eyed look at Ron. 

“Rule number one,” Ron whispered at him, echoing a conversation they’d had back when Hermione was pregnant with Hugo, “Everything’s always your fault.”

George grimaced but nodded. 

“You want anything to drink, Ron?” Angelina called from in the kitchen.

“Maybe some water?” Ron answered her, kicking off his shoes next to his kids’ messily discarded sandals – at least they still had some manners, toy broom notwithstanding. 

“We’ve got Butterbeer, if you’d like,” his sister-in-law called.

“That’d be fine.”

She came back with a few Butterbeers floating at the bequest of her wand, leading the way to the sitting room. A minute later, the three of them settled on the couch. Angelina took a moment to get comfortable, stuffing several cushions against the small of her back, and swung her feet up into George’s lap. “Your baby’s been kicking me in the bladder all day,” she informed him. 

“Probably thinks it’s the Quaffle,” George countered, putting down his Butterbeer and beginning to dig his thumbs into the arches of her feet. This seemed to appease his wife, who relaxed.

“Our kid the Keeper,” Angelina said. “Probably have enough kids to fill the whole Gryffindor Quidditch team by the time this one makes it to Hogwarts.”

Ron laughed. “No doubt.”

George glanced up. “How’s Malfoy?”

“No idea,” Ron frowned at his Butterbeer, catching a drop of condensation on his thumb. “The welcome witch wouldn’t let me in as soon as I couldn’t prove I was blood family.”

“That’s rubbish,” Angelina informed him. “That man’s basically family and Harry hasn’t even introduced him properly yet.” She said it as if the eventual introduction was a foregone conclusion – Ron really appreciated Angelina’s endless optimism. “George told me they’re bonded?”

Ron nodded. “Naturally occurring too.”

“Doesn’t surprise me,” the dark-haired witch said. “I remember how much those two fought in First year. Was like watching little boys pulling little girls’ pigtails, except neither of them had pigtails.”

Ron choked on his drink. “They hated each other back then!”

Angelina shrugged. “Not much of a line between hate and love, really. It’s all just obsession at that age. Just wait ‘til Hugo starts writing to you complaining about some kid he can’t stand. I bet you ten Galleons that they’ll be his crush by Fourth year.”

He shuddered. “I’ve got ages until that happens.”

“You’d be surprised,” George said darkly. “Freddie’s already got himself a crush on Madam Malkin’s great-grandkid.” He laid a hand on Angelina’s calf and then took a sip of his drink. “Have you heard from Hermione?”

“Nothing,” Ron told him, mood darkening. “She didn’t come home last night.”

“She was talking about the library before she ran off, yeah?”

“Yeah, though which library she’s holed up in I haven’t got a clue,” Ron told him, and then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It’s bad enough with Harry disappearing, without her vanishing off somewhere as well.”

“You’ll find him,” Angelina said, with conviction. “And I’m sure Hermione’s just fine – she’s probably figuring out the key to tracking him down as we speak.”

“I can only hope,” Ron agreed. “God, it feels hopeless. The case files are useless, everything we know and not a single lead. It’s driving me mad.”

“You should try doing something else,” George suggested. “Try not thinking about it.”

A spark of anger flared behind Ron’s eyes. “I can’t just _not_ think about it. My best mate is missing! For thirteen bloody days now! Merlin knows what the bastard who took him is doing with him.”

“And you’re getting nowhere,” George noted, tone unchanged despite his brother’s upset. “I’m just saying, it’s like when I get stuck on an experiment. I’ll work at it and work at it and nothing will change. But then I’ll go do something else, and Freddie will do something ridiculous, or Angie will say something, and suddenly I’ll get the most _brilliant_ idea.”

Ron thought about it, still a bit on edge. “I can’t just stop worrying. I don’t think I ever could, not until he’s home safe again.”

“I’m not saying not to worry,” George answered. “And I know it’s not the same, but it’s been thirteen days. You need to try something different.”

Ron sighed, thinking of Healer Fenwick, and Malfoy, and phrases like ‘blood loss’ and ‘stretched bond syndrome’ that had carved their way into his heart with their horror. “I’d try anything to get him back, you know that. It’s been too long, and Malfoy – Malfoy’s _dying_.” He clutched the bottle in his hand a little too hard, and the childproofing charm that kept it from breaking pushed back at his hand. “Never thought I’d care about the git, but he’s grown on me.”

“He gives excellent advice about explosive potions,” George noted, as if that was a perfectly normal way to judge someone’s character. “I had a breakthrough in our Whiz-Bangs line after he came for dinner. I’d offer him a job if I didn’t already know he’d never take it.”

Ron barked a laugh. “From Potions Master to Joke Master? No, I somehow don’t see that happening. Can you imagine him in the magenta uniform?”

“With his skin tone?” Angelina asked, wrinkling her nose.

They all pictured that for a moment, and then burst out laughing.

Ron was the first to control his chuckles, sobering. “We need to get Harry back.”

“Yes, we do,” George said, and then carefully moved Angelina’s feet from his lap and stood. “Come on, let’s go play a game of chess. Maybe we can trigger something in that Auror’s brain of yours.”

With no better ideas, Ron shrugged, chugged the last of his Butterbeer, and followed George. 

Several hours (and several wizarding chess victories) later, the case was no more solved than it had been before, but at least Ron’s headache had disappeared and some of the stress had left his shoulders, leaving his mind clearer than it had been in days.

He bid George and Angelina farewell and gathered the kids, ensured the puffskein was safely pocketed, and used an Accio to locate the last of the invisible cards that Hugo had managed to lose in the flat. 

“Thanks,” he told George, after declining an invitation to stay for dinner.

“Like I said,” his brother reminded him, “we’re here if you need anything.”

“Bye, Uncle George and Aunt Angie!” Hugo and Rose chorused, and then allowed their Dad to lead them into the flat’s Floo and back home in a flash of bright green fire, each tiny hand held securely in Ron’s own as they spun through the Network.

Both the kids dashed off as soon as they stepped back onto the living room floor, barely pausing to kick their shoes off at the hearth. Ron shook his head and bent to loop the sandals’ straps over his fingers, taking them back to the organizer near the front door. 

He could hear Rose excitedly introducing her new Pygmy Puff to the other four, and Hugo was whooping loudly as the Exploding Snap cards set themselves off before he’d even managed to start building his first card tower. Smiling slightly, Ron untied his shoes and added them to the organized mess that was their front foyer. Maybe George was right.

He wandered into the kitchen and began checking cupboards. As always, cooking was one of the talents that his mother had not passed on to him in the birth lottery. He could probably manage… pasta without burning anything or accidentally poisoning a child, yeah?

He set out the ingredients he needed, still keeping some part of his mind focussed on Rose’s chatter in her room as the puffskeins squeaked at each other and Hugo shouted in excitement as his card tower blew up for a second time. Eyes in the back of one’s head certainly were an essential part of a parent’s toolkit. That and one-way Silencio Charms, a strong grasp of Reparo, and a knowledge of the Summoning Charm and the name of the kid’s favourite toy. He had no idea how Muggles managed it without magic.

He had just set the water to boil when he heard it – the Floo activating.

His feet took him back into the living room before he could really register making them move. “Hermione?”

She tumbled out of the fireplace, holding a stack of books almost taller than she was. Her face was flushed, her hair was a mess, and she was speaking in some kind of magical gibberish with lots of Latin words that he couldn’t understand in the slightest.

Yet she was still the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

“Ron!” she cried breathlessly, dropping the books in her haste to throw her arms around him. “Ron, I know how to find him! I _know how to find Harry_!”


	8. Heart-to-Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione saves the day.

“What?” Ron asked, a bit blankly.

Hermione’s arms squeezed tight around Ron, but he was shocked enough to forget to hug her back. Before he could react, she had let go and was back at the fireplace, throwing in a handful of Floo powder and kneeling.

“Mom!” Rose shouted, running into the room with Hugo hot on her heels, but Ron caught them before they could interrupt Hermione’s Floo call. With her head in the fireplace, Ron had no idea who she was speaking to, but it was only a few seconds before she disconnected from the Network and stood again. 

“Mom!” Rose tried again, and Ron let her and Hugo go and clamp themselves onto his wife’s legs. “You’re back!”

Hermione sank back to the ground to gather both of them into a tight hug, pressing light kisses to their foreheads. “I am. I’m sorry. I missed you – but I’m going to have to leave for a bit longer.”

“But why?” Hugo complained.

“Yeah,” Rose whined. “Dad can’t cook nearly as good as you.”

Ron didn’t even bother protesting that one, and then suddenly remembered that the stove was on. He leaned back and pointed his wand back through the kitchen entranceway, stopping the heat to the pot that had begun to steam. 

“I’ve found a way to find your Uncle Harry,” Hermione told the kids, ruffling their hair.

“Really?!” both said, excitedly, voices overlapping. “When’s he coming back?” “Do we get to go to the zoo?” “I want to see him!” 

“Soon!” Hermione laughed, pulled them in tight again, and then squeezed her eyes shut. “I hope,” she said, quiet enough that Ron wasn’t sure she’d said anything at all.

Ron took a step towards his family, a question forming on his lips. 

‘ _No time_ ,’ Hermione mouthed at him, shaking her head, and then stood, ruffling the kids’ hair. “Now come on, how do you feel about going to see Auntie Luna?”

“But I want to go with you!” Hugo said. “I want to see Uncle Harry.”

“You can’t see him yet, darling. But really soon, I promise!” Hugo didn’t look convinced, so she tried again. “Lorcan and Lysander are there too.”

“Really?” he asked, suddenly more interested. The twins were about his age and the three generally got on like a house on fire, so Ron wasn’t surprised.

“Is Uncle Neville there as well?” Rose asked. 

“Yep, and he’s got a whole crop of new things in Greenhouse One to show you. He told me himself.”

Rose thought for a moment and then shrugged. “Okay.”

“Alright, go get your shoes.” The kids scampered off, and Hermione turned to him, worrying at her lip.

“Where’d you go that you saw Luna and Neville?” Ron asked. “Weren’t they in Brazil looking for some kind of Babbling… Bumblesomething?”

“They’re both back at Hogwarts – school starts soon, remember?” Right, Ron remembered, he sometimes forgot that his friends were also the Professors for Herbology and Care of Magical Creatures when not traipsing the globe looking for new plants and creatures.

“What were you doing at – oh, the library,” he could have slapped himself. Of course that’s where she’d been, it was only the best magical library in the country.

Their kids ran back into the room with now-shoed feet. 

“Alright, I’ll just let them know you’re coming through.” She knelt and threw some more green powder into the hearth, before leaning through the flames. Less than a minute later, she leaned back out and then reached out towards the kids, giving each a tight hug before sending them through a kind of child-safe tunnel that she and Luna were keeping open from both ends. 

The flames died down once both children were through, and then flared up again, revealing Luna’s face. “Both here safe and sound,” the former Ravenclaw chirped. “They’re welcome for as long as you need.”

“Thank you, Luna,” Ron told her.

The woman smiled and then vanished from their fireplace.

“What’s going on? What’d you find?” Ron asked his wife, who was now gathering up the books she’d abandoned on the floor and stuffing them under her arm.

“There isn’t time, Ron,” Hermione told him, grabbing at his hand. “If I’m right, we need to do this now. Come on.”

She tugged him towards the Floo, and he went, bending down into it.

“Where are we going?”

Hermione threw green powder at his feet, and then pulled out her wand. “ _Subitis_! Head Auror’s Office! ”

“What –” Ron managed, and then choked on soot as he was pulled through the Network and spat out the other side. He stumbled as soon as he was through, and had to catch himself on a nearby table, coughing. Once he’d straightened, it was to see his boss sitting at his desk with a raised eyebrow – though what the man was doing here so late on a Saturday afternoon, Ron had no idea. The Head Auror didn’t normally take the weekend shifts.

“Hi,” Ron managed.

Robbards’ eyebrow raised further.

Hermione stepped much more gracefully through the Floo, books and all, and glanced around. “I can’t believe that worked,” she said. “Did you know you’ve been connected to the Emergency Floo Network since 1854? I read about it but I rather thought the book would be outdated. It’s a huge security risk!” With that, she slapped the stack of books down on Robbard’s desk.

“Mrs. Weasley –” 

“I’ve found a way to find Harry,” Hermione interrupted him. 

The Head Auror stood quickly, raised eyebrows disappearing. “What have you found?”

“I need you to get us into Saint Mungo’s. Into Draco Malfoy’s room.”

“But why?” Ron asked, completely lost.

“Look – I need you to trust me! We haven’t got time. At the rate of devolution – please, just put a team together, I don’t want to have to explain this multiple times.”

Robbards considered her for a moment, and then waved his wand. Immediately, an alarm went off, blaring through the office loud enough that Ron clapped his hands over his ears. A minute later, two Aurors rushed into the room, slamming the door into the wall in their haste. Both had their wands drawn.

“What’s going on?!” Auror Robinson shouted over the sound, Auror Ellery grimacing behind him.

Robbards cancelled the spell, and the room went blessedly silent. “Auror and Mrs. Weasley, these are the Aurors that are assigned to the investigation of Auror Potter’s disappearance.”

Ron nodded at them. He’d worked with Chris and Evelyn before on cases, both had incredibly strong investigation skills and spellwork. 

“Well, Mrs. Weasley?”

Ron’s wife bent forward, shoved half of the books out of the way and across Robbard’s desk, and opened a specific one, flipping through the pages until she reached whatever it was she needed. Snapping the book open, she jabbed her fingernail into the page, pointing at a heavily underlined section. 

What it said, however, was gibberish to Ron, who hadn’t a clue how to read Ancient Runes.

“It’s here, right here,” Hermione said, flinging a section of her bushy hair over her shoulder. “I thought of it the moment I saw that projection that Healer Fenwick showed us, it just took me time to find it.”

Everyone stared at her a bit blankly, not understanding.

Hermione turned and looked at them, exasperated. “Don’t you see? We can track Harry through the bond, _through the bond_.”

There was a momentarily silence as that sunk in, and then Ellery was moving forward, bending over the book with Hermione and taking it out of her hands. She ran her fingers over the underlined section, eyes flicking back and forth across the page, expression changing from serious to hopeful as she read. “You could be right. This, this right here, that seems to indicate –”

“A perpetual association between the two animate nuclei,” Hermione chimed in.

Ellery nodded as if she had spoken English. “Which would create a kind of bridge, wouldn’t it?”

“A tether, really, except not, because it would be synonymous with the whole,” Hermione agreed.

“What in Merlin’s name are you talking about?” Robinson interrupted, evidently as lost as Ron was.

The two women snapped up from where they had been bent over the book. 

“She’s right, this could definitely work,” Ellery said, eyes wide. “It’s like – how do I explain?” She looked at Hermione.

“It’s the Medipar Cordis bond,” Ron’s wife began, “If you go back to the original Latin, it actually means something like ‘half a heart’.” She made a fist out of each hand and held them apart. “It takes two magical cores, and links them together.” She pressed her fists against each other, interlocking her fingers. “That part’s just like with any bond. But _unlike_ most bonds, when the bondmates move away from each other for any length of time, a Medipar Cordis bond doesn’t disconnect the link.” She pulled her hands apart, but left her fingertips touching. “Most bonds drop in and out of existence based on how close bondmates are to each other. The reason ones like this one are outlawed is because they don’t do that – Medipar Cordis _stays_ connected.” She curled away all but her index fingers, leaving those two hooked around each other. “Even when the bondmates aren’t near each other, the cores stay linked, but the link stretches and stretches and requires more and more magic the longer they’re apart –” She put tension on her hands, hard enough that her interlocked index fingers began to whiten at the strain, “until eventually the cores are forced to break in order to keep the witch or wizard alive.” She broke her hands apart with finality.

“That’s what’s happening to Malfoy,” Ron realized.

“Yes,” Hermione said, “which is why we need to hurry.”

“Wait – hang on,” Robinson interrupted. “So they’re bonded – how does that help us find Harry?”

Hermione gestured exasperatedly. “The bond is like – like a magical line drawn right from Malfoy’s heart to Harry’s. Their cores are connected, but it’s more than that, their cores are basically one whole.”

“Alright,” Robinson agreed.

“This book,” Hermione said, pointing at the tome in Ellery’s hands, “has a ritual where we can make that connection tangible. It’s a terrible spell – historically wizards would use it to reveal and then break bonds that they disapproved of, but once it’s visible, we should be able to follow it directly to wherever Harry is.”

“You’re sure about this, Mrs. Weasley?” Robbards asked.

“Positive,” Hermione answered him. “But we have to hurry. If either of their cores breaks before we find Harry, they’re going to end up as Squibs, or possibly – possibly even _dead_. The backlash from the bond breaking is going to be astronomical.”

“Alright,” Robbards stepped around his desk. “You say this Floo is connected to the Emergency Network? If you would demonstrate?”

“That fireplace shouldn’t be connected to _any_ Floo network,” Robinson protested, crossing his arms. “That’d be a massive security risk!”

Hermione ignored him, grabbed her book out of Ellery’s hands and tucked it under her arm. She pulled out her wand and stepped into the still-green blazing fireplace. “ _Subitis_! Saint Mungo’s!”

Immediately, she vanished with a loud whooshing noise, the flames in the fireplace exploding and licking green light all the way up to the mantle. Robinson jumped like he’d been bitten by an Acromantula. 

“Go!” Robbards ordered, pushing Ron in the direction of the fireplace. The redhead unholstered his wand and followed his wife’s example. “ _Subitis_! Saint Mungo’s!”

The Floo spat him out onto the Ground Floor of the wizarding hospital, and he stumbled over to his wife, blinking a bit from the bright flames. Soon, the other three Aurors had joined them.

“He’s in Spell Damage,” Hermione told them. “This way!”

The group strode rapidly across the lobby and past the welcome desk to the lifts, cramming inside. Hermione punched the necessary button, and they shot upwards before unloading onto the Fourth Floor. To Ron’s trepidation, the reception desk was still managed by the same witch he’d encountered earlier that morning. 

“I am Head Auror Robbards,” Ron’s boss barked as they reached the desk. “Here to see Draco Malfoy.”

The witch flushed and blustered, but at least didn’t go through the façade of flipping through the log book for the millionth time. “I’m afraid that’s not possible – only blood family is permitted –”

“And I can detain you for up to forty-eight hours for obstructing justice and interfering with the course of a Minister-sanctioned Auror investigation,” Robbards spoke over her, rising to his full, intimidating height.

The witch shrank in her seat. “I – I see. That won’t be necessary, Auror Robbards. Let me call Healer Fenwick.” She waved her wand, and a silver owl paperweight on her desk suddenly shook its wings and took off from the waiting room, hooting.

Minutes later, a Healer in lime-green robes burst through the double-doors off the waiting room. “What is the meaning of this?” he barked. “I’ll not have you disrupting the care of my patients!”

“Healer Fenwick,” Robbards greeted. “We’re not here to disrupt anything.”

“We’ve found a way to locate his bondmate,” Ron blurted.

Healer Fenwick, who had looked about to start a tirade towards the group of Aurors, paused. “Then where is he?”

Robbards looked around at the suddenly silent waiting room, where the occupants were staring at the commotion with some fascination. The Head Auror drew his wand and cast a quick privacy ward. Their unwanted audience frowned but drew their attention away.

“I’m afraid it’s more complicated than that,” Robbards said. “Mrs. Weasley?”

Hermione stepped forward and held out her book. “There’s a way that we can use the bond to find Harry,” she told him. “But we’ll need to cast a ritual spell on Malfoy in order for it to work.”

Healer Fenwick’s lips twisted. “Mr. Malfoy is in an _extremely_ fragile state. Magic of that type –”

“Could be the only way to save him,” Ron interrupted. “Look, you told me that Malfoy is like this because he’s been separated from Harry. What happens if we don’t find Harry?”

The Healer grimaced, conceding the point. “Being reunited with his bondmate is the only thing that will restore Mr. Malfoy’s magical core to a stable state. However, regardless of that, I am not the one who makes decisions in this matter. In absence of his bondmate, Mr. Malfoy’s care is the purview of his mother.”

“But you can get us in to talk to her,” Hermione insisted. “We just need to talk to her. This could be the only way to save him – to save _both_ of them.”

The Healer deliberated for a moment, glancing from Ron to his wife and then around at the surrounding Aurors. “I will allow it. But it will be entirely up to you to convince Mrs. Malfoy.”

“Thank you!” Ron told him sincerely.

Fenwick inclined his head, and then, at a fast pace, he led the group out of the waiting room and down the hallways until they reached the heavy oak door and its silver “Room 589”.

“Now, I’ll ask you holster your wands and to limit your magic _as much as possible_ ,” he told them, firmly. “The Stasis Charm is currently the only thing maintaining Mr. Malfoy’s magical core.”

Ron and the others nodded in acquiescence, and those who had drawn their wands put them away. The Healer knocked his wand on the door, and it opened without requiring them to relinquish anything.

Inside, Narcissa Malfoy sat at her son’s bedside, holding one of his pale, lifeless hands in her own. At their entrance, she glanced up sharply. 

“Healer Fenwick, what are these people doing here?” she asked, not letting go of her son’s hand or rising from her seat. She managed to look like some kind of queen in regalia, with her perfectly pressed silken robes and delicate rings on her fingers, though Ron was almost certain that the robes were the same as those she had arrived in. 

“We think we have a way to save Draco,” Hermione offered timidly, stepping forward, book hugged to her chest.

Narcissa looked her over, gaze trailing from her bushy hair to her jeans and trainers. “You are the Granger girl, are you not?”

“Uh – yes,” Hermione stuttered. Ron had a strange desire to point out that she was a Weasley now, but quelled it. This was not the time for possessiveness.

Narcissa sniffed. “Draco talked entirely too much about you. Muggleborn. Yet top of your class, were you not?”

“I – yes?”

The Malfoy matron looked away from them and at her son. Malfoy – Draco – was still as a statue, his breathing barely stirring his chest under the effects of the Stasis Charm. His skin looked like porcelain, fragile and bone-white, and his platinum blond hair fanned out around his head like a kind of halo. Under the blue glow of the magic sustaining him, he looked almost ghostly.

“My son is dying,” Narcissa said, quietly. 

No one replied.

After a moment, the older witch looked back at them, a fierce look in her eyes. “If you have a way to save him, tell me.”

Relieved, Hermione rushed to explain, laying out her book on Draco’s bed, careful not to disturb the patient or the Charm. Then she described the state of the bond and her proposal, illustrating her point with the book, at which Narcissa nodded sagely.

“The spell you speak of – I know it. It is not a Light spell.”

“It’s not Dark, either,” Hermione noted. “What they used it for after they made the bond tangible, that was Dark. But the initial revelation of the bond, that itself is neutral magic.”

Narcissa considered this for a moment, and then caught Hermione’s gaze with her own. “Will it hurt my son?”

Ron watched as Hermione blinked, expression turning uncertain. “It’s – it’s possible that the spell will be painful. But I don’t know if we have a choice. If we don’t find Harry, Draco will die. They’ll both die.”

Narcissa pursed her lips tight, and searched Hermione’s eyes as if seeking out a lie. Then she nodded shortly. “Do it.”

At her words, a mass of tension seemed to dissipate in the room, and its occupants huddled closer to the bed, Healer Fenwick still watching them carefully.

“Thank you for cooperating, Mrs. Malfoy,” Robbards said.

“I am not doing it for you,” Narcissa snapped at him, and her eyes filled with fire. “Just save my son.”

Robbards nodded. “Mrs. Weasley – how does this ritual work, exactly?”

Hermione took a deep breath. “It requires at least four witches or wizards. The incantation is _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_. It’s a reiteration spell, the same words repeated seven times. There’s also a wand movement, an hourglass shape.” She used her hand to demonstrate, tracing a smooth set of interlacing triangles with four strong movements. “Every word is accompanied by a movement.” She demonstrated, tracing the hourglass shape with her hand as she said, strongly, “ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.”

Ron copied her, also wandless, and after he’d done so once, the other Aurors joined in, repeating the spell and the movement.

“Will more than four participants increase the ritual’s chance of success?” Robbards questioned.

Hermione consulted her book. “It’s definitely a _minimum_ of four people, but there’s no maximum. I don’t believe there’d be any harm if us five cast.”

“Alright – Healer Fenwick, you’ll work to maintain the Stasis Charm?” Robbards asked. 

The Healer nodded, taking out his wand and moving to stand on the other side of Malfoy’s sickbed. A moment later, light streamed out of his wand, making the Charm glow an even brighter blue.

“Mrs. Malfoy, I can trust you not to interrupt the spell, no matter what happens?”

Narcissa whitened, but nodded, taking Draco’s hands in both of hers.

“Ready?” 

The group nodded, drawing their wands and preparing. 

“Now!”

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_ ,” they chorused, slashing the air with strong movements. Nothing happened.

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” A faint web of magic began to unfurl from each of their wands, intersecting and flowing out over Malfoy’s bed.

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” The web brightened. 

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” Suddenly, Malfoy’s spine arched unnaturally, and an unearthly sound pierced the room, loud enough that it seemed to shake the floor beneath Ron’s feet. 

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” Ron forced the next chant past his suddenly dry lips, trying not to notice the expression of horror on Narcissa Malfoy’s face, and the strain on Healer Fenwick’s as he fought to keep the Stasis Charm in place.

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” The web brightened. The sound got worse.

“ _Cor catenis tuam revelare, cor videam tuam vinctum_.” Everything stopped. Malfoy collapsed back into the bed, completely still, the Stasis Charm dimmed to its normal glow, and the ritual’s web faded.

Each of the spellcasters lowered their wands. For an endless, agonizing moment, absolutely nothing happened. Malfoy didn’t breathe. Narcissa didn’t move from where she clutched her son’s hands. Healer Fenwick held the Stasis Charm, sweat beading on his brow.

Then, suddenly, Malfoy let out a tangible breath, his chest shivering, and a bright blue light floated out on the updraft, shimmering above him and drifting towards the ceiling. Hermione went completely pale, as if all of the blood had drained out of her at once.

For a second, no one reacted. Then Hermione jumped into motion, wand swishing. She Conjured a glass bottle out of thin air, caught the ball of light inside it, and corked it, trapping it. Once done, she shot a terrified look at Healer Fenwick. “Is he –”

The Healer fought with the Stasis Charm for a moment more, but then the light from his wand dimmed and he leaned back, bracing a hand against the wall. “Stable, for now.”

Ron’s wife sagged, as did Malfoy’s mother, who clutched wordlessly at Malfoy’s hand. 

“I thought – for a moment –” Hermione cut off without explaining herself, still pale. Ron reached out carefully and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

This seemed to bolster her. “Auror Robbards – I realize we have none of the appropriate paperwork, but would you be willing to authorize the creation of an Emergency Portkey?”

Robbards furrowed his brow. “For what purpose?”

Hermione held out the bottle. “For this – this will take us right to Harry.”

Ron stared at the bottle. “Really?”

Hermione smiled faintly. “Really – the bond’s been made tangible, it’ll take us where we need to go.”

Robbards held out his hand, and she gave the bottle over. 

“I’m afraid I cannot allow you to go with us, Mrs. Weasley,” Robbards informed her.

“Hey now,” Ron bristled, drawing his wife tighter against his side.

“No!” Robbards barked. “It is one thing to involve a magical expert in a ritual spell. It is quite another to invite a civilian to the raid of a crime scene. Mrs. Weasley will not be accompanying us.”

Ron opened his mouth to argue, despite the Head Auror’s severe expression, but Hermione distracted him with a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s fine. He’s right, Ron – I’m not, I’m not trained for this.”

“You’re the most brilliant witch I’ve ever met,” Ron argued.

She smiled at him. “But I’m not an Auror.” She looked at him more seriously. “But you’ll find him. You’ll find Harry and you’ll bring him back, you hear?”

“I will,” Ron agreed. 

“Weasley,” Robbards barked, summoning him with a twitch of his hand. He, Ellery and Robinson gathered around as the Head Auror drew his wand over the bottle.

“Now, we have no idea where this will take us,” Robbards noted. “Wands ready. Pay attention to your surroundings when we arrive. It’s time we brought Auror Potter back home.”

The three of them nodded.

“ _Portus_!” Robbards said, tapping the bottle. For a moment, it quivered, glowing as blue as the Stasis Charm, and then settled, returning to its original appearance.

“Hands on!” the Head Auror barked, and the three immediately put their hands on the new Portkey.

“Three – two – one –”

Ron was suddenly pulled through a bewildering tunnel of swirling color, light and sound, before being spat out back into existence.

It was dark, and Ron stumbled, disoriented.

“Fancy seeing you here,” a familiar voice said.

Then there was the telltale sound of a wand slashing through the air, and everything went black.


	9. Trapped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The culprit is revealed. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: Mentions of blood and descriptions of magical torture.

Consciousness returned to Ron in a slow, agonizing slide, as if his thoughts had turned to sandpaper against the surface of his brain. The first thing he registered was the steady drip of water, endless and rhythmic somewhere off to his left. The second thing was the dull throbbing drum that had taken up residence in his skull, every beat of his heart feeling like the kick of a Hippogriff against his temple.

He opened his eyes, and attempted to blink away the blur of pain and the insistent nausea. 

Across from him, Harry was chained to a stone wall, unconscious.

Ron’s shout of strangled horror was drawn involuntarily from his lips and then immediately cut short by a single word: “ _Silencio_.”

Wildly, Ron turned and tried to throw himself in the direction of the spellcaster, but was caught short by the manacles on his wrists digging sharply into his skin. 

“You!” He tried to scream, though no sound made it past the spell.

Blaise Zabini grinned at him lazily, spinning his wand through his fingers, from where he leaned casually against the wall. “Hello, Weasley.”

Ron threw himself at the man again, heedless of the manacles, which tore at the insides of his wrists. Anger had chased the confusion and pain from his skull. They’d never interrogated Zabini. Never asked him a single question. He’d never even _thought_. 

Zabini chuckled, eyes dark. “Oh yes, you never even suspected me, did you? This must be such a surprise.”

To Ron’s right, someone groaned, and was silenced before Ron had even had a chance to turn his head in their direction. It had been Robbards, who was similarly chained to the wall, next to the still-unconscious Ellery and Robinson. They began to wake just as Robbards started stirring in earnest, and were also silenced with lazy waves of Zabini’s wand.

“Glad to see I warrant the best of the Auror service,” the dark-skinned former Slytherin said. “A Head Auror, even.” He flicked his wand, wordlessly slamming Robbards’ back against the stone wall, and cocked his head to the side. “It seems our precious _Saviour_ is worth something to the Ministry.” He held the man against the wall for a moment longer, and then flicked his wand away. Robbards sagged against the manacles, breathing hard, though the heaves of his chest made no sound against the Silencio Charm.

Zabini turned his attention to brunette Auror next to Robbards, slamming her into the wall as well. “Evelyn Ellery, the witch who caught Fenrir Greyback,” he mused. “Bill Weasley always had a fond word for you.” He turned and tossed a wicked smile at Ron, while Evelyn grimaced against the wall, struggling. “I work with your brother, you know.” And no, no, Ron shook his head involuntarily. Zabini’s smile only grew at the redhead’s reaction.

“In his words,” Zabini grinned, “I’m ‘one of the best Curse-Breakers Gringotts has ever seen.’” He spun his wand again, his whole demeanour relaxed even as Evelyn gulped in desperate, silent breaths behind his back. “I think I’ll enjoy helping him break into our next Egyptian temple, with him having no idea I’m the one who killed his baby brother.” 

Ron struggled violently against the chains again, silently snarling, but Zabini just laughed, and then turned to face Robinson. Chris was expecting the spell this time, but it didn’t seem to help as it set in.

“And Chris Robinson,” Zabini introduced, “who infiltrated the Snowfell Potions Ring. Undercover for five years, and they trusted you so much that you made it to Snow’s right hand, right before you burnt them to the ground.” He twitched his wand, and the spell seemed to increase in power. Robinson screamed, and it was even more terrible to see it with no sound attached. “There was rather good money in selling the ingredients for black market Dreamless Sleep potions after the War,” he said casually, “I didn’t appreciate your interference.”

Zabini stayed like that for a moment, watching Chris writhe against the wall, before flicking his wand and allowing the Auror to collapse, held up only by grace of the chains on his wrists.

The man finally turned his attention back to Ron. “And Ronald Weasley,” he voiced, smiling, “Potter’s little guard dog. Always nipping at his heels in school, weren’t you?”

Ron lunged at him.

Zabini flicked his wand, and Ron was thrown back against the wall. The back of his head ricocheted off the stone, but the pain of the impact was nothing compared to the effects of the spell. It was like being burned alive, every nerve screaming with agony. Past the pain, he could just barely hear Zabini laughing. Time seemed to extend endlessly, and he struggled, thrashing. The others hadn’t been under this long, surely. Oh Godric, he needed it to stop. He was barely aware of his vocal chords straining, screaming silently, and then, suddenly, the spell vanished.

Ron sagged against the manacles, sweat beading on his brow and sharp spikes of pain still shooting through his limbs.

“Looks like you’re made of sterner stuff than I thought, Weasley. The house elf didn’t survive being under that long. Kreacher, wasn’t that his name?”

Ron nearly threw up. 

Zabini spun his wand in his hand, smiling. “Did you know that my mother has been married nine times now? It’s funny, you’d think that you Aurors would find it suspicious, why each of her husbands has died in ‘mysterious circumstances’ and left her richer for it.” He paused. “I imagine it’s rather a family gift of ours, fooling you lot.”

He seemed to ponder that for a moment, and then continued. “Still, even this was rather pathetically easy. Playing Draco’s _loyal_ friend.” His mouth twisted, and this was the first time he’d seemed anything other than relaxed and joyful in the entire time Ron had been awake. “Being _there_ for him, taking him to the _hospital_ , listening to him prattle on about his precious little _boyfriend_.” He shot a glare of fiery hatred at the unconscious Harry, and flicked his wand. A cut opened up on Harry’s cheek, and the man flinched even in his insensate state. 

Ron would have lunged at Zabini again, but the spell had left him weak and useless, and his legs didn’t respond, twitching with aftershocks of pain. Instead, he was forced to watch as the blood trickled down his best friend’s emaciated jawline, past dark, near-black bruises, before dripping onto his bare chest. Harry was covered in blood and half-healed scars, and painfully, horribly thin, every one of his ribs showing. Massive swaths of bruising covered his upper torso, and all of his weight was held by chains, which had mutilated his wrists, and – Godric – dislocated his shoulders.

He looked half dead.

“I originally only meant to kill Draco, you know,” Zabini said conversationally, his face smoothing out again as if the sudden anger had never happened. “When we graduated Eighth year at Hogwarts, I wanted to go into Wizarding Law. Except – they were more interested in hiring filthy little Mudbloods like your wife, weren’t they?” He looked at Ron, who grimaced at the slur against Hermione. “Never mind I was neutral in the war. Never mind I never took side. But _Draco_ , with his _Dark Mark_ , gets pardoned by Potter and becomes the _most renowned Potions Master in Britain_!” His calm demeanour shattered again on the last shouted phrase, face transforming with anger. 

Zabini took a deep breath, and shifted, settling back to his neutral expression. It was creepy, how easily the mask slid into place. 

“Only the goblins would take me,” Zabini told them. “So I thought I’d make Draco pay, I befriended him, let him talk about all the terrible things the Dark Lord made him do. He’s a maudlin drunk, Draco is.” Zabini smiled at that, before it turned wicked. “But the thing is, if you get him drunk enough, and add a little Veritaserum from his own stores – well – he’ll tell you everything he knows, won’t he?”

He leaned towards Ron, grinning. “And the best part? He won’t remember any of it in the morning.”

Zabini settled back on his heels, looking pleased with himself. “I only meant to find out about the manor’s wards, figure out how to get in and out without being suspected, but I found out something so much better.” He grinned.

“Our Draco was _dating_ Harry Potter! A Death Eater and the Chosen One! How _precious_!” Zabini crowed, before settling to a more normal tone. “So instead I got to learn all about the wards on Grimmauld Place, all the things that keep the Saviour locked up all safe and sound.”

He paused, and then took a step over to the unconscious Harry, and used his wand to flick black hair away from the man’s forehead. With the tip of his wand, he lightly traced Harry’s scar. “Or not so safe, as it happens. See, old family houses like that, they use blood wards. Old magic, strong, probably the strongest wards there are, but they have one teensy little flaw, as it happens.”

Zabini tapped Harry’s forehead, thankfully not casting any spells, though Harry’s head lolled off to the side at the movement, blood smearing on his neck. “I have the Muggles to thank for the idea, actually. I was raiding this Mayan temple for Gringotts, and got caught with a nasty slashing curse. Apparated, but didn’t quite hit the mark, and got picked up by some Muggles. Woke up in one of those so-called hospitals with a Muggle Doctor pumping non-magical blood into my veins.” Zabini grimaced. “Took months to cleanse it out with Blood-Replenishing Potions.”

He traced his wand down Harry’s forehead and circled one of his eyes. Ron desperately wanted to curse off Zabini’s hands, anything to make him _stop_ touching his best mate.

“But it gave me a rather novel idea,” the bloody psychopath continued. “Blood wards rely on a specific thing – blood. But if it doesn’t happen to be yours, well, the wards wouldn’t really care, would they? Blood is blood is blood and all that.”

“And I could get all the blood I needed, couldn’t I?” Zabini smiled. “Because clueless Potter gave Draco access to everything, and well – I had access to Draco.”

With a sudden sinking feeling in his chest, Ron realized that Malfoy’s low blood levels were not a mirrored symptom of the bond at all.

“Oh, you understand now, don’t you?” Zabini asked, glancing at him and finally moving away from Harry. “That Sunday afternoon, I had enough blood in my veins that I was practically a Malfoy. Enough blood that when I touched the door, the wards let me in without so much as a whisper.”

“I caught him right as he was Stunning a Doxy,” Zabini continued.

A memory flashed behind Ron’s eyes – a Doxy, dead and emaciated in the curtains. Starved to death, caught by a Stunning Curse that was never lifted, the last spell Harry cast.

“Hit him with a curse before he even knew what was happening. If it hadn’t been for that bloody elf, there wouldn’t have been any evidence that I’d even been there. That creature fought me tooth and nail before I killed him.”

Elf blood in the carpet, furniture overturned, Floo powder spilled.

“It was surprisingly easy to overwhelm the great Harry Potter,” Zabini mused. “A rather great accomplishment, I imagine, to manage something that even the Dark Lord couldn’t do.”

He smiled again. “And it was even more rewarding than I imagined. Salazar, what it did to Draco, with him missing.” Zabini licked his lips. “Beautiful thing to watch, heartbreak.”

Ron wanted to claw out the man’s eyes with his bare hands. Wanted to stab him. Wanted to watch blood gurgle out of his mouth instead of this horrid monologue. If there was ever a moment where he would have had the conviction to cast the Killing Curse, this would have been it.

Zabini fiddled with his wand again, glancing around at the Aurors and Harry. “Now, it’s just a matter of making sure no one finds him – or _you_.” He reached down and pulled something out of his robe’s pocket, and Ron’s heart nearly stopped at the sight.

A faint glowing light shone from behind thick Conjured glass – the bottle holding the tangible bond.

“I suppose this is how you found me. Interesting piece of magic, not something I’ve seen before.” He turned the bottle over in his hands, thumbs rubbing over the glass. “Would any of you like to tell me what it is?”

None of the four Aurors so much as shifted.

“No?” Zabini asked, glancing around. 

He settled his gaze on Ron. “Perhaps another round will loosen your tongue?” He flicked his wand.

Instantly, Ron’s nerves set on fire again, this time somehow worse than the first. He bit his tongue within the first few seconds, blood flooding his mouth with the tangy taste of iron. Vaguely, in the one piece of his mind that wasn’t screaming in pain, he wondered whether this was what the Cruciatus curse felt like. He’d never heard of it being cast non-verbally, and he’d never been subjected to it before, but this was pain unlike anything he’d ever imagined.

It went on for an eternity, his entire frame spasming involuntarily, full weight hanging on his wrists as he failed to support his own body. Eventually, he stopped being able to feel his extremities, and his peripheral vision began to shrink.

Only then did the spell drop.

Ron nearly collapsed into unconsciousness anyway, despite the spell being lifted. Unlike the first time, the pain didn’t recede immediately. His fingers were numb, and even the slightest movement set off fireworks of agony throughout his body. His thoughts felt as if they were forcing their way through mud.

“Well?” Zabini asked.

Despite everything, Ron didn’t even look at him, focusing on keeping his breathing even and deep.

“Nothing? Well – I’m afraid another round with this invention of mine would probably kill you, Weasley. Are you sure you want to risk it?”

Not the Cruciatus, then. Something worse. He didn’t bother raising his head to respond. He wasn’t actually sure that he even could if he wanted to.

“No?” Zabini asked again. “Anyone else?”

None of them could even speak past the Silencio Charms. Ron had no idea what the man even expected them to do.

“Hmmm, to be fair, I don’t actually expect any of you to be the ones behind this piece of magic. This location is untraceable, unplottable, and I rather thought unreachable. It seems I was wrong. Now, the Auror department isn’t exactly known for its ingenuity – so – I imagine you had some outside help.”

He paused for a moment, and Ron could hear him pacing. “Was it your clever little Mudblood wife, Weasley?” 

Ron must have shifted, or one of the other Aurors, because Zabini made a vaguely impressed noise.

“So it was her,” he mused. “I rather underestimated her brains. Still, that doesn’t tell me precisely what this is or how to prevent her from making it again. Shall I go ask her myself?”

This was enough to make Ron raise his head, shouting angrily despite the uselessness against the Silencing Charm. 

“Aha,” Zabini smiled, “You don’t like that, do you? Don’t worry, Weasley, I’m not going to do anything to jeopardize my freedom. Your wife will be just fine. Though I imagine the life of a widowed mother will not be an easy one once I’m finished with you.”

He turned away, and strode towards a door that Ron hadn’t previously noticed.

Setting his hand on the handle, he glanced back at Ron and the others. “Pity you weren’t more prepared,” he said, grinning mockingly. “That pretty little bint of yours almost had me.”

He left, the door clanging shut behind him, taking the light – a floating Lumos Charm – with him. For a while, they could still hear his footsteps, and then Ron realized he could hear his own breathing.

The Silencio Charm had been cancelled.

Robbards started speaking almost immediately. “Are you alright, Weasley?” He’d dropped the ‘Auror’, which was a sure sign that the situation was dire. The Head Auror was never informal.

“Fine, just fine,” Ron managed weakly, even though he was anything but fine. There were more important things to worry about than the fact that he could no longer feel his fingers. He turned his head to the side and spat out blood, which had been pooling in his mouth since he bit his tongue.

“Forgive me if I don’t take you at your word,” Robbards told him.

“How did he never get called in for questioning?” Ellery spat, chains rattling as she pulled fruitlessly at her bindings. “That piece of dragon dung –”

“He wasn’t even on any of the bloody lists,” Robinson swore. 

Ron tried to think past the mud that was still slogging through his brain. “I didn’t – I didn’t think Zabini even knew about Harry. When I dropped Malfoy off after interrogation, Malfoy was revealing who he was dating to him. I thought that was when he found out about their relationship.”

“Bloody hell,” Robinson swore again, knocking his head back against the wall after another tug on the chains. “Questioned every family member and every goddamned Auror in the department and he was out here this whole time.”

“Any bright ideas on how to get out of here?” Ellery sighed. “I think Auror Potter needs a Healer. Or seven.”

That was the understatement of the century. Ron let his eyes rest on where his best mate’s face had been, trying to get his eyes adjusted to the dark. “Harry?” he tried.

His pupils widened enough that he could make out Harry’s form on the other side of the room. The unconscious brunet didn’t so much as twitch, barely even breathing where he hung from the wall. He looked even worse than Malfoy had, and Malfoy had looked bad off as it was.

“Where the hell are we anyway?” Robinson asked, looking around at their surroundings as their eyes adjusted to the lack of light. The room was built out of stone, from ceiling to floor. There was a single window high above their heads, heavily barred, that shone a thin veil of light into the space. Otherwise, it was just them, the heavy, intricately sculpted metal door, and their chains.

“Feels like a dungeon,” Ellery answered him. 

Robbards, who had been silent since checking on Ron, was moving to his feet, somewhat shaky after the torture under Zabini’s wand. Supported by the wall, he began inspecting the manacle that encircled one of his wrists.

“Not a dungeon, more likely a wine cellar,” he said. “These chains are Conjured.”

“A wine cellar,” Ellery scoffed. “So we could be in any pureblood mansion built in the last however many centuries.”

Ron was having difficulty following the conversation, but he understood what Robbards was getting at. “Wine cellar is less secured than dungeon,” he managed. “Dungeon would be –”

“Heavily warded with centuries’ old spellwork,” the Head Auror finished for him. “A wine cellar, on the other hand, is probably only warded by Zabini’s own spells.”

“Doesn’t help if we’re locked up,” Ellery noted, shaking her hands so that the chains clinked ominously.

Ron forced his eyes open from where they had closed against him involuntarily. “We need – we need to get the bottle back from Zabini. If he finds out what it is –”

Everyone went silent as they contemplated that. 

“We need to get out of these chains,” Robinson pointed out needlessly.

Ron chuckled without any humour. If Harry was awake and healthy, the chains would already be dust. He’d unfortunately been in a similar situation on one of their cases. Without hope, he asked, “Can any of you do wandless magic?”

There was a long silence where Ron’s heart managed to sink even further in his chest.

Then, quietly, Ellery said, “I can.”


	10. Escape

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Aurors unite to save the day. 
> 
> Trigger warnings: some more mentions of blood and past magical torture

“Don’t look at me like that,” Ellery snapped, as the occupants of the cellar turned to look at her with wide eyes. 

“You never told me that,” Robinson said, staring at his Auror partner.

“That was definitely not on your resumé,” Robbards growled. “I would have seen it.”

“That’s because it’s not a big deal,” Ellery told them, exasperated. “I’m not like Harry or… or Malfoy. I accidentally locked myself in wardrobe with a Boggart when I was six. It damaged my magical core, or claustra, or whatever, but not that much. The most I can do is accidentally levitate things when I’m angry!”

She shook her wrists, rattling the chains. “There’s no way I can break through these!”

Ron looked across the room at Harry – bloody, broken, barely breathing. “For all our sake’s,” he said slowly, “I suggest you try.”

Ellery stared at him, and then at Harry, and sighed. “I’ll – I’ll try.”

She pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the wall, staring at the manacle around her right wrist. Pressing her eyes tightly closed, she furrowed her brow, and concentrated. 

Nothing happened. In fact, nothing continued to happen for the next ten minutes, except for Ellery’s brow furrowing deeper and deeper and her cheeks flushing red with effort.

Finally, she snapped her eyes open and let out an angry huff, teeth gritted. “This. Isn’t. Working.”

“Keep trying,” Ron encouraged her, desperate. Zabini could come back at any moment with answers about the bottle and the bond it contained, and Ron knew how that was going to play out. He’d break the bond, to prevent Hermione following it again, which would kill both Harry and Malfoy. And then he’d kill the four of them, to keep the murders a secret. 

Ellery looked like she wanted to object but seemed to reconsider at his pleading expression. She closed her eyes again, but still, after a few minutes, there were no results.

“I can’t! I told you – my magic isn’t strong enough!”

The tattered remains of Ron’s hope were beginning to wilt. If they didn’t get out of here, Zabini was going to hit him with that spell again. And of all the ways to die, he really, really didn’t want to die like that. In agonizing pain as his nerves slowly died. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew what the lack of feeling in his hands and feet meant. 

Robbards was regarding Ellery with a serious expression. “Evelyn,” he tried, using her first name to get her attention – it was effective, Ron didn’t think he’d ever heard Robbards use a first name. Hell, he didn’t even know _Robbards’_ first name. 

“Are you married, Evelyn?” Robbards asked.

Ellery didn’t look like she wanted to answer, seeming suspiciously on the verge of tears.

“Yeah, she is,” Robinson piped up, and Evelyn shot her Auror partner a slightly betrayed look. “Ev’s got a wife named Kimberley – calls her Kim, and – and a daughter, named Cara.”

“Don’t,” Ellery rasped. “Please don’t.”

“Evelyn,” Robbards said, ignoring her. “Tell me, how do you think Kim is going to feel when you don’t come home after your shift today?”

“Don’t,” Ellery protested again, weakly.

“Kim’s pregnant,” Robinson added, and Ron kind of wanted to hit him, unclear on what game him and Robbards were playing at. “Second kid.”

“Stop it!” The distraught witch told him. “Don’t bring her into this!”

“Evelyn,” Robbards said, completely calm from where he was supporting himself against the wall. “Do you really want Kim to go through that? You know Zabini is going to kill us – they’ll probably never find our bodies. Maybe there’ll be a funeral, maybe she’ll hold out hope for years that you’re coming back.”

“Stop!” Ellery shouted, crying now.

“Do you really want your wife to live through that? Give birth to the baby by herself? Raise your kids all on her own? Without you?”

Ellery lunged at him, but was caught by the chains, tears pouring freely down her cheeks.

“Maybe she’ll even find someone else,” Robbards continued, still in the same calm tone. “After all, with you out of the picture –”

The shackles around Ellery’s wrists suddenly _exploded_ open, the chains swinging violently backwards so that one of the manacles would have cracked into Robinson’s skull if he hadn’t ducked at the last second.

Evelyn collapsed to her knees on the stone floor, breathing hard. “I fucking hate you, Robbards,” she hissed. 

“No, you don’t,” the Header Auror said. “Now get us out. Weasley first.” 

Ellery pushed herself to her feet, face still streaked with tears, and came over to where Ron was hanging, barely lucid, against the wall. 

“Hey,” she told to him. “You alright?”

“Fine,” Ron lied through his teeth.

She put her hands on the manacles at Ron’s wrists, fingers slipping a bit on the blood from where he’d struggled against them trying to get to Zabini. She closed her eyes, and again, absolutely nothing happened.

“Do I need to start talking about your daughter, Evelyn, how much she’ll miss –”

“NO!” The shackles snapped open, and Evelyn breathed hard through her nose, looking everywhere except at Robbards as Ron slid slowly to the floor.

The lack of pressure on his wrists and shoulders was a massive relief, and the feeling of being free gave Ron enough strength to haul himself half-upright and stagger across the room to where Harry was unconscious. Collapsing against the wall next to the insensate Auror, he reached out and wiped blood from his best mate’s bruised cheek. Harry looked even more awful up close. His face was gaunt, his cheeks were hollow, and the bruises around his eyes were dark with burst blood vessels. His breathing was shallow.

“Harry?” He tried. In his peripheral, he could see Evelyn working on Robinson’s chains, and could hear Robbards calmly taunting her into using her wandless magic. 

“Harry,” he whispered, patting the man’s cheek softly with a deadened palm. “Come on, mate, we’re here to get you out.” He didn’t get a response, though Harry’s eyelids seemed to flutter just slightly.

He heard the last of the shackles opening with a growl from Evelyn and then the others were around him.

“Think you can manage one more, Ellery?” Robinson asked.

“Don’t talk to me,” the witch ground out. She stepped forward and inspected the metal cuffs on Harry’s wrists, before frowning. “These are different than the others.”

“How so?” Robbards asked, leaning over her shoulder.

“The others are obviously Conjured from the stone walls. This – this isn’t. And there are runes, look.” She ran her index finger over a line of runes on the edge of the metal. “I don’t recognize them all, but that one, that means ‘bound’, and that one means ‘magic.’ I don’t think anything I try wandlessly will work on them, runic magic is powerful.”

Ron felt sick to his stomach, remembering a comment that Robbards had made, what seemed forever ago in his office. The culprit had to have magic strong enough to keep Harry’s contained. And this, this apparently was what had been keeping him contained.

“What do we do now?” Robinson asked, reaching out to touch the cuffs around Harry’s wrists as well. “Not to be a doomsayer, but with Auror Potter still locked up and Evelyn being the only one who can do magic, I’m not seeing a lot of options here.”

Suddenly, something burned against Ron’s leg. He flinched.

The others looked at him worriedly as he nearly fell in his haste to reach inside his pocket. He pulled out a telltale gold coin.

Robinson snorted. “Are we going to try to _bribe_ Zabini?”

“Shut up,” Ron told him, excitedly. “It’s not a Galleon. It’s enchanted.”

He showed the coin to them, face up on his palm. There, in golden text where the serial number should be, were the words: “WHERE ARE YOU?”

“Where on earth did you get this?” Robbards asked, taking the fake coin in hand.

“It’s a Protean Charm. Hermione enchanted them in fifth year, back when Harry was leading Dumbledore’s Army. It was a way to communicate meeting times without Umbridge knowing,” Ron explained. “She got the idea from the Death Eater’s Dark Marks.”

Ellery looked impressed. “Your wife is brilliant.”

“She really is,” Ron breathed.

“Is there a way to send a message to her?” Robbards asked.

“Yeah,” Ron said, “But normally you’d need a wand.”

The Head Auror wordlessly handed the fake Galleon to Ellery. 

Evelyn glared at him. “If you start talking about my wife –”

Ron glanced at Harry, who was still unconscious. They didn’t have time to deal with this, so he interrupted her, “Look, you just have to sort of – direct your magic at the coin and think hard about what you want the message to say.”

The witch looked down at the coin. “But what do we want it to say?”

Hope spread its wings inside Ron’s chest. “I have an idea.” 

~>~>~>

It was several hours before they could implement Ron’s plan, but when they heard footsteps coming down, they were ready.

Ron had his thumbs wedged into the clasp of the cuffs, preventing them from closing on his wrists and trapping him again. He didn’t think Ellery would appreciate having get him out a second time. He was trembling a bit as he held himself against the wall. Without the support of the manacles, he was forced to use his thighs to press himself upright, so as to look as if he was still locked up. With the painful shocks still occasionally wracking his muscles and a tingling, almost burning sensation in his limbs, the position was almost impossible to hold.

The others were doing the same, though perhaps they were standing with less difficulty than Ron was experiencing.

He didn’t think their positions or the way they were holding the chains would stand up to a close inspection, but they didn’t need to fool Zabini for long.

The footsteps came closer, and there was an elaborate clicking sound as whatever locking mechanism there was in the door disengaged. It swung open, and Ron tensed even further as their dark-skinned captor stepped into the cellar.

“Oh, you’re still alive, Weasley,” Zabini said conversationally. “Pity, usually the nerve damage takes them down by now.”

Ron determinedly tried not to think about the pins and needles sensation that seemed to be playing a game of chess across his skin. 

Zabini seemed content to largely ignore the Aurors this time, moving across the room to where Harry was slumped against the wall, and drawing his wand. 

“ _Rennervate_ ,” he said. 

Ron froze. He didn’t know why Zabini wanted Harry awake, but he was sure it wasn’t good. But they had to wait – they had to know for sure that Zabini had the bottle. Otherwise the plan would be pointless.

Harry groaned, head tossing and eyelids fluttering, before his eyes opened, startlingly green. He stared sightlessly for a second – Ron realized he wasn’t wearing his glasses and it was just another cruelty Zabini had subjected his best mate to – and then seemed to focus on Zabini.

Zabini smiled, and then flicked his wand. Harry flinched, letting out an agonized sound, as another cut opened up on his cheek just below the first. 

“I’ve just discovered something rather interesting,” the Dark wizard said softly, petting Harry’s hair as the brunet shrunk away from him. “Your friend left some rather specific books at the Auror office.” He threw a smirk at Robbards. “Which your receptionist was only to glad to let me see, or shall I say let _the Head Auror_ see. Draco does make the best Polyjuice.” 

Ron wanted to swear. The raid hadn’t been routinely logged. None of this had been routine. Anna would have no idea that Robbards had left on a mission, though she might have wondered why she hadn’t seen him leave before he came back. But really – who’s going to question the Head Auror on their whereabouts? And Hermione had left all those books on the desk – they’d only taken one to St. Mungo’s.

Zabini switched his attention back to Harry, who didn’t seem to have recognized that there was anyone else in the room. “It seems that you and Draco have developed a bond,” he said, smiling. “And I get to be the one to break it.”

“N-no,” Harry whispered, his voice sounding more raw than most potions ingredients. “Please – just leave Draco out of this. I’ll – I’ll do anything you want.”

Zabini pursed his lips. “I’m afraid the only thing I want is for Draco to die.”

Tears slipped out of the corners of Harry’s green eyes, and Ron desperately wanted to shove the man off of his best mate and take Harry far away from here. 

“Why are you doing this?” Harry begged, struggling weakly. “ _Please_ , Blaise, Draco’s your _friend_.”

“He’s not my friend!” Zabini shouted at him, anger like a thundercloud across his face. “He’s stolen what’s mine! My place in the world! He got everything!”

Harry flinched again, trying to get away from the hand that Zabini still had in his hair, which had dug into his scalp while he shouted.

“Dra-Draco’s never stolen _anything_ from you,” Harry tried, tears mixing with the blood on his cheeks.

“He’s stolen _everything_ ,” Zabini hissed, and then he took his hand out of Harry’s hair. “And now I’m going to steal everything from him.” He pulled the bottle out of his robe pocket. 

“ _Now_!” Robbards yelled, and they sprang into motion, save for Ellery who was holding the Galleon close and working to send the second message to Hermione.

Zabini barely had time to react before Robbards, Ron, and Robinson were on him. A streak of white light shot out of his wand, and someone yelled in pain, something hot and wet spattering against Ron’s face. He brought his elbow down hard on Zabini’s wrist, but the man didn’t release the wand, instead shooting another spell. This one missed, ricocheting off the ceiling with explosive force and sending a shower of rock shards down over them.

One caught Ron in the hand, but he couldn’t even feel it.

Then, out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw something glow blue. 

Ron swore violently. Hermione had already activated the Portkey. “Grab onto me!” he shouted, and then lunged away from Zabini and towards Harry. Harry was oblivious, focused on the bottle that Zabini had accidentally dropped into his lap and staring at the light within it with something approaching awe. Ron landed roughly, hitting Harry’s legs, one hand closed on the portkey, the other wrapped around Harry’s arm, and someone else’s hand grabbed onto his ankle.

“I hope to God this doesn’t rip your hands off,” he told his best mate, and then the world ruptured into a swirl of colour and light.

The Portkey spat them out into the St. Mungo’s hospital room in a pile of struggling bodies. His hand was still on Harry’s bicep, and he went with his instincts and threw himself overtop of his best friend, trying to protect him from the spells that Zabini was firing off, apparently having been dragged with them.

Then a shrill, blessedly familiar voice yelled, “Stupefy!” and there was a flash of red light. 

The struggling stopped.

“Ron?” A confused, equally blessedly familiar voice said, and Ron shot up to his knees so fast that he nearly slammed his head into Healer Fenwick’s, who was leaning over him.

“Harry!” he shouted joyfully. And yes, his best mate’s eyes were clear and looking directly at him, the green iris startlingly bright in contrast to the red blood and blue-black bruises adorning his face.

“Ron?” Harry rasped.

Hermione threw herself to her knees next to them.

“’Mione?” Harry asked.

“I’m here, Harry. You’re safe.”

Then, suddenly, looking like a Lumos Charm had been cast behind his eyes, Harry tried to sit up. “Draco,” he was frantic, hand reaching up to tangle in Ron’s robes. “Where’s Draco?”

Someone pulled hard on Ron’s robes from behind, a counterpoint to Harry’s weak grasp on their front, and Ron turned, finding Healer Fenwick trying desperately to pull him out of the way in order to get to Harry where he was sandwiched between Ron and Hermione and the wall. “For Merlin’s _sake_ ,” the Healer ordered, “ _Get him near his bondmate, NOW_!”

There was frantic movement, and Ron nearly tripped over Zabini’s prone form. He had his arms hooked around Harry’s back, carrying him, with Healer Fenwick on the other side and Hermione making worried noises from the sidelines. 

And then Harry was on the bed, hands reaching for Draco’s comatose form. Almost immediately, the Stasis Charm imploded with a whooshing noise that seemed to take all the air out of the room. 

“Draco?” Harry said, voice weak as he stroked the blond’s hair. “Draco, please.”

For a moment, nothing happened, and then Malfoy suddenly took a breath like he’d breached the surface of a lake after being underwater for far too long. His eyes snapped open, and then his hands were on Harry. He struggled with the blankets briefly – they suddenly disintegrated before Ron’s eyes – and then he was pushing Harry onto his back and crawling over him, pressing their frames together like he was trying to meld himself to the brunet’s skin. 

“Harry,” he rasped, hands tangled into wildly messy dark hair. “ _Harry_.”

And then it didn’t matter that they both unhealthily thin, or that Harry was covered in injuries, because they were kissing, hands tightly pressed to skin and limbs entangled, and Ron did _not_ want to see that.

He turned to Hermione, who made a noise halfway between a laugh and a sob, and then very slowly folded himself against her, forehead tucked into her shoulder. 

She pulled him in tight, pressing her lips repeatedly against his ear, his hair, his brow. “Thank Merlin you’re alright,” she half-sobbed. “I was so worried. When you sent that message –” She squeezed him tighter. 

“Thank you,” Ron murmured in her ear. “Thank you. Without you we wouldn’t have –”

“How did you even know I could retrieve the Portkey?” Hermione cried, hands squeezing his shoulders. “Where did you learn –”

Ron leaned back from her a bit, brow furrowing. “You told me. That one night when I was trying to get you to come to bed. You said that there was a way to retrieve Portkeys, but only if you knew exactly where it was sent from and knew what it was made of and what it’s magical signature felt like. It wouldn’t work on the one Zabini used to take Harry, but it could, and _did_ work on the bottle.”

“I – I don’t even remember saying that,” Hermione stuttered.

Ron grinned. “Not often I get to be the brilliant one.”

“Oh, Ron!” Hermione said, pulling him close again. “You’ve always been brilliant!”

Suddenly, the door to the hospital room opened and a bunch of Healers poured through in a flood of lime-green robes, distracting Ron from burying his head against Hermione’s shoulder.

With a start, he realized that Ellery and Robinson were both leaning over Robbards, who was still casting spellwork to keep Zabini in place even while the two Aurors put pressure on the deep cut that was seeping copious blood from his shoulder.

“Sir!” One of the newly arrived Healers said. “Stand down!”

“That man is a wanted criminal,” Robbards insisted, not putting down his wand, which was probably Zabini’s wand, actually. “I will not stand down until he is safely in custody!”

“Expelliarmus!” the Healer said, disarming him. “You are losing blood, sir! Unless you want to lose that arm as well, I suggest you _stand down_.”

Robbards blinked, wandless, and the Healer took that for acquiescence, moving Robinson and Ellery out of the way and beginning to cast spells over the deep cut. 

Hands red with blood, both Aurors were immediately accosted by a Healer each, while another went to tend to the downed Zabini, who had been thoroughly Incarceroused by Robbards.

Several others joined Healer Fenwick at the bed where Harry and Draco were becoming… increasingly indecent, actually. Healer Fenwick was holding the bottle with the bond in it with a determined expression, using his wand to pop the cork, and then began spiralling his wand, causing the light to pour out in an even stream and settle over the pair on the bed.

As it glowed brightly and then sank into Draco’s and Harry’s skin, Ron was distracted from the scene by the arrival of his own Healer.

“Healer Leavenworth,” the man introduced himself. “Now, I understand you were in a recent altercation with a Dark wizard. Are you injured?”

“He’s got cuts on his hands and wrists,” Hermione started, frowning and pulling away to show his hands to the Healer.

“No,” Ron interrupted her, thinking about the way his hand had been carding through her hair and yet he couldn’t feel a thing. “No, the cuts are nothing. There’s – there’s something wrong.”

His wife’s frown deepened. “What? Ron, what’s wrong?”

The Healer conjured a floating stretcher and eased Ron down onto it in a sitting position. 

“Zabini used some kind of spell on me,” Ron said. Now that the adrenaline was fading, the symptoms were racing back with vengeance. His skin was either burning or senseless, depending, and sharp shocks of pain were still stabbing into his limbs at random intervals. “Felt like a modified Cruciatus. He said – he said something about nerve damage?” He asked the Healer. “Hermione,” he said, a bit miserably. “Hermione, I can’t feel my hands.”

“How long ago did this happen?” Healer Leavenworth asked briskly, arranging Ron on the stretcher while Hermione looked on with wide, worried eyes.

“A few hours?” 

“Good, good,” the Healer said. “Not to worry – you’re well within the acceptable time range for treatment, Mr. –”

“Weasley. Ron Weasley.”

“Well, Mr. Weasley. It just so happens that we have Nerve-Regrowth potion well stocked. Thanks to someone in this very room, actually, our Potions Master Malfoy. We’ll have you sorted out in no time.”

He bustled off, presumably to go get said potion.

“Nerve-Regrowth Potion?” Ron asked. “I thought that nerves were the one thing we couldn’t regrow. Didn’t we learn that from Lupin in third year?”

Hermione sighed, taking his hand, which he couldn’t feel. “Don’t you ever read, Ronald? There’s a reason Malfoy is so well-accepted in the Potions community. He invented Nerve-Regrowth potion.”

“Really?” Ron asked, a bit bewildered. A moment ago he’d been convinced that he would never be able to feel Hermione’s hair in his hands again. Or hold his wand correctly. Or properly direct a broom through the air.

“Yes, Ron,” Hermione said, a bit fondly. “It’s even proven to be effective against the Cruciatus Curse, if applied in time. It also has an effect on severe cases of long-term Cruciatus patients, but it’s not as strong. Hadn’t Neville told you his parents are improving?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron answered her. “But I just assumed they’d found some spell or something.”

“What have I told you about assuming?”

“Not to?” Ron guessed. 

Hermione squeezed his hand, which he only noticed because their joined hands knocked against his thigh, and then Healer Leavenworth returned.

He held a small bottle filled with bright red liquid, like cranberry juice except more… glowy. “Now, have you ever had Skele-Gro?” the Healer asked.

“No, but I know what it’s like,” Ron grimaced, remembering Harry’s second-year Lockhart encounter.

“Well, Nerve-Regrowth tastes better, but I’m afraid it’s just as painful. Now, we’re going to get you set up in your own room, and you’ll take this, but you’ll be in for a rough few hours.”

“But I’ll be able to feel my hands again?”

The Healer smiled kindly. “Yes, Mr. Weasley, you’ll be able to feel your hands again.”

“Alright,” Ron said, relaxing, and the Healer began moving the stretcher out of the room.

Ron looked around. The healers had arranged a kind of curtain around the sick bed, presumably behind which Draco and Harry were still thoroughly intertwined. Robbards had been bullied onto a stretcher and had thick white bandages wrapped around his no longer bleeding shoulder. Ellery and Robinson, looking shaken up but mostly fine, were sitting on stretchers as well, while their respective Healers held bottles of red potion and seemed to be explaining them.

Zabini was also on a stretcher, but he was still thoroughly tied up, and apparently while Ron had been distracted, more Aurors had arrived. The one standing guard near Zabini gave Ron a friendly nod.

In that moment, it really hit him.

They were safe. They were _all_ safe.

He looked at Hermione, his wife, his lover, his partner, his friend, who he had briefly thought he might not ever see again, and had to close his eyes against tears.

There were _safe_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welp, that's pretty much it except for the epilogue, which I shall likely write tomorrow. Man, I don't think I've ever written this much in a week before. What's it been, like 28k words in 7 days? Thank you for coming along for the ride!


	11. Epilogue - One Year Later

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life goes on.

“You’ve gotta hair outta place just there, mate,” the mirror drawled as Ron adjusted the collar of his dress robes.

“Thanks,” Ron said, spotting it and smoothing it down.

“That’s betta,” the mirror told him, and then seemed to settle down. It was a less outspoken mirror than most that Ron had met. Usually they had more opinions than a Wizengamot court room. But then again, Ron hadn’t generally been to fancy places like this one before. Presumably they could spend a bit more to make sure their mirrors didn’t insult every patron that came across them.

“Ron, where have you run off to?” a voice asked from the other room.

“Right here, mate,” Ron called back. He gave himself another look in the mirror. Hair tamed, check. Robes spotless and lace free, check. He patted a hand on his robe pocket. Still had those as well, check. He took himself back to the other room.

“Oh, there you are,” Draco said, glancing back over his shoulder from where he was fiddling with his cufflinks. From the back, his robes fit perfectly to his shoulders and sharply accentuated his narrow waist, before cascading down his legs in a ripple of elaborately embroidered dark green fabric. He wore his hair longer and a bit loose, rather than slicked back against his skull like when they’d been kids. It made his angular features look less pointed.

For a second, Ron experienced a feeling of bizarre vertigo, as if he’d stepped into a dream.

“Weasley,” Draco barked at him.

Ron snapped out of it. “Hey now, I thought we were over the last names.”

The blond grinned. “We are, you oaf, but you were getting that look like you were remembering trying to hex me back in second year.”

Ron shuddered. “Don’t remind me. Disgusting slugs.”

Draco finished fiddling with the cufflink – the shape of a dragon with tiny diamond eyes – and turned to face Ron. He spread his arms, presenting himself. “How do I look?”

Ron gave him a critical look. The dark green dress robes were open at the front, exposing perfectly tailored dark grey slacks and a matching, tightly fitting waist coat, all just as elaborately embroidered as the robes themselves. Beneath the waist coat, a light silvery grey shirt was open at Draco’s throat, exposing pale skin and a silver dragon pendant that matched the cufflinks. 

With the light from the massive windows shining behind him – which Ron was almost certain were enchanted to cast the occupants in the absolute best light – he looked like he was glowing.

“You look like a berk,” Ron decided.

Draco blinked, and then burst out laughing. 

Ron grinned at him. “Nah, mate, you look amazing. Harry’s probably going to cry.”

Draco controlled his laughter and glanced at him slyly. “Did you cry, when you married Hermione?”

“Oh loads,” Ron admitted, unashamed. “You have _seen_ Hermione, yeah? She’s –”

The blond rolled his eyes. “Don’t start on one of your ‘Hermione is amazing’ tangents. I have heard them all. Multiple times even.”

Ron shrugged. It wasn’t his fault his wife was brilliant. 

Draco fussed with the tightly fitted arms of his dress robes so that the seams were all straightened. “Still regretting ‘letting’ your wife win that chess match?”

There hadn’t been any ‘let’ about it, but Ron was never going to admit that to anyone. The game they’d played to decide which of them got to be Harry’s ‘best man’ had been brutal and competitive, and Hermione had beat him with a pawn. A _pawn_ , for Godric’s sake. Eh, it wasn’t so bad though, he’d gotten to be Draco’s instead, and had thoroughly enjoyed getting him completely wasted on his stag night. The former Slytherin was _hilarious_ when he was drunk. Heck, the man was hilarious most of the time, actually. But he wasn’t going to be admitting that either.

“Babysitting your arse has been an absolute nightmare,” he deadpanned.

Draco grinned at him. “You love me really.”

Ron made an exaggeratedly disgusted face. “I’ll leave that to Harry, thanks.”

He glanced over at the custom-made clock on the wall. A bit like his mother’s, except that instead of showing times, it was counting down until the ceremony, with two hands on either side, one engraved with ‘Harry’ and the other with ‘Draco.’ Draco’s was currently lagging slightly behind. 

“Alright, you look great. Stop fussing. Do you want to be late to your own wedding?”

Draco allowed Ron to sweep him out of the room and into a beautiful decorated hallway. The walls were interspersed with old wizarding wedding portraits, from which grooms and brides excitedly waved. The carpets were even more plush than the ones at Summerside Manor, and as soon as Draco stepped onto it, he seemed to freeze. 

Ron turned to look at him. “You alright?”

Draco shook his head and pressed a hand tight against his heart.

“Is it the bond?” Ron asked, an all too familiar question at this point. Draco and Harry had decided to go the traditional route and not see each other the night before the wedding, but this still made it the longest the two had been apart since the fiasco last year. It had been alright so far, though. Distance didn’t have the effect it used to. There’d been a point where the Healers wouldn’t let them more than ten meters away from each other for fear of a relapse.

Draco shook his head again. “No – no, I’m fine. I just can’t really believe this is happening.”

Ah, nerves, Ron remembered these well. “Mate, you’ve been living at Grimmauld for nearly a year. You have a naturally occurring Medipar Cordis bond. You proposed within like three days of Zabini getting sent to Azkaban. Where did you think this was going?” 

“No idea,” Draco answered, sounding nervous. “Keep expecting to wake up and find out it’s all a dream, sometimes.” His magic reacted a bit and a vase on a nearby side table wobbled, a lily petal drifting out of the bouquet.

Ron eyed the petal as it settled and then set a hand on each of the blond’s shoulders. “Come on, that’s not the loud and proud Malfoy I know. Renowned Potion Master extraordinaire? Author of six theoretical potions texts? Bloke that my best friend is completely mad for?”

That cracked a smile. “It’s seven, actually. Seven potions texts, one for each Hogwarts year.”

“See what I mean?” Ron insisted. “You’re brilliant. You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’ve ever called anyone other than Hermione brilliant before.”

Ron patted his shoulders. “Don’t go letting on.”

The groom-to-be rolled his eyes, and then mimed locking his lips shut and throwing away the key.

“Come on,” Ron said, putting an arm around his shoulders and pulling him gently down the hallway past the waving happy couples. “Can’t leave Harry waiting. He’ll blame it on me, you know.”

Draco allowed himself to be directed down the hallway, until they reached a large set of white double doors, inlaid with silver patterns that seemed to shimmer in the light from the chandelier above them. Behind the doors, Ron could hear the crowd chattering, overlaid with soft strains of piano music. He glanced at the clock next to the door, a copy of the one in the ready room. Both grooms’ names were pointed at the ceremony time.

“You ready?” he asked.

Draco took a deep breath and nodded. Past the doors, the piano music paused for a long moment, catching the attention of the crowd, and then started up again, gentle strains of Harry and Draco’s chosen song drifting through the now quieter room. 

Ron offered his arm. Draco took it. The doors opened.

Past them, the hallway opened up into a massive circular room. The ceiling arched high above them, made entirely of glass, to show a picture perfect blue sky interspersed with clouds. Sunlight streamed down and seemed to catch more on the center of the room than anywhere else. There, a silver pergola stood, looped through with green ivy. 

Past that, on the other side of the room, an identical set of doors had also opened, through which Hermione and Harry stepped through at the same time that Ron and Draco stepped through theirs onto their respective aisles leading up to the pergola.

The first thing Ron noticed was that Hermione looked absolutely amazing, wearing a flowy light grey-silver dress that matched Ron’s own dress robes. The second was that Draco’s hand had gone rather tight on his forearm. 

He leaned over, having an idea of exactly what the blond was feeling right now, and whispered, “Breathe, mate.”

Draco breathed. 

Ron then made a distinct effort to slow their pace when the man took a much longer step than they had during rehearsal practice. He was pretty sure Hermione was doing the same. Impatient gits. 

Keeping to the planned sedate pace in time with the drifting piano music, he got his charge to the center of the room at the same time that Hermione arrived with hers. Before they’d even had a chance to hand the grooms off to one another, Harry and Draco had reached out for each other with their free hands. Ron rolled his eyes in time with his wife and gave the other hand over to Harry as well, before stepping back to his post at the side of the scene.

Harry looked wonderful, and Draco certainly seemed to agree, if the way he was looking at his fiancé was any measure. He wore the same tailored robes as the blond, accentuating his broad shoulders and trim waist, and while his hair was still its usual wild disaster, it seemed to have been at least somewhat tamed. The green of the robes made his eyes seem even greener under his silver-framed glasses. A silver phoenix pendant hung around his neck, a match to Draco’s dragon. 

The pairs’ hands were tight together, and Harry’s smile could have put the sun out of business.

Ron had an odd urge to cry and blinked to dispel it. Over in the crowd, he noticed that his Mum and Narcissa Malfoy had no such qualms, dabbing at their eyes with handkerchiefs.

The piano music stopped and Minister Shacklebolt stepped forward. It wasn’t every day the Minister for Magic married someone, but today, he was here as Kingsley, not the Minister.

“Dear wizards and witches, family and friends,” Kingsley greeted, “We are gathered here today to witness the joining of Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy. Now, I understand they have gotten rather ahead of themselves and are already bonded.” He gave Harry and Draco a stern look – they both blushed, and the crowd laughed. “However, I am honoured to be the one to publicly acknowledge that bond and the love that these two men share.” He smiled at the pair.

“Now, if anyone has any objections and would like to face the wrath of Mr. Potter, they are welcome to speak now or forever hold their peace.” He glanced around the room. Unsurprisingly, no one objected.

As it so happened, The Daily Prophet hadn’t been a particularly silent commentator on Harry and Draco’s engagement. It also so happened that Harry hadn’t been particularly forgiving of anyone who had dared to object to him holding Draco’s hand in public. As in, he’d use his position as Auror to incarcerate any particularly brave naysayers and lay them with an assault charge, with Robbards’ full support. So, no objections were par for course.

“Good, good,” Kingsley began, drawing his wand and setting the tip over the pair’s joined hands. “Now, Draco Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, do you take this man…”

Ron tuned out slightly, catching Hermione’s eyes from where she stood below a strand of ivy and grinning. She smiled back. She’d done something to her hair that made it look even prettier than it normally did, and Ron found himself sliding back in time to when it had been him and her at their wedding. It certainly hadn’t been as fancy as this, no glass ceilings or silver or huge crowds of people, but it had still been one of the best days of his life. 

“I do,” Draco said, with conviction, catching Ron’s attention again. Where Kingsley’s wand lay, a band of bright light swirled out and wrapped around Harry and Draco’s hands. They’d decided on a basic marriage bond to overlay their existing Medipar Cordis bond, more to appease general wizarding law regarding valid, non-illegal bonds than anything else.

“And do you, Harry James Potter, take this man to be your partner in all things, to love and cherish from this day to your last, for better or worse, richer or poorer, ill or thriving, wherever life may take you from this day forth?”

“I do,” Harry said, solemnly, and a second band of light drifted from Kingsley’s wand and spiralled tightly around their hands. For a moment it hung there, bright and beautiful, and then it sank beneath their skin, still shining, and dissipated.

“Do you have the rings?” Kingsley asked him.

“I do,” Ron said, and lifted the box from his robe pocket. He gave it to the Minister.

Kingsley opened the box and removed both rings, handing the first to Harry.

Ron’s best mate took a deep breath and said, “May this ring be a symbol of the love I hold for you.” He took Draco’s left hand and slid the ring onto his third finger. “When you see it, may it remind you that my heart is yours, and that it always will be. May it tell you that I would fight another Dark Lord to keep you safe,” he grinned a bit at this, though Draco rolled his eyes, “and that my home, my magic and all that belongs to me is also yours. I love you, Draco Malfoy.”

Draco flushed a bit as he took the second ring from Kingsley and began to slide it onto Harry’s finger. “May this ring be –” he suddenly paused, choking up. “Dammit, Harry, I’m going to cry and it’s all your fault.” The crowd laughed, and the blond wiped quickly at his eyes, clearing his throat. “May this ring be a symbol of the love I hold for you,” he started. “When it catches your eye, may it remind you that you hold my heart in your hands and always have, and always will. May it tell you that while our magic chose to bind us before we decided on it, I would still choose you every day for the rest of my life, if given the chance. I love you, Harry Potter.”

Now it was Harry’s turn to blink back tears.

“I now pronounce you husbands and bondmates,” Kingsley pronounced. “You may –”

Draco and Harry were already way ahead of the game, kissing while the crowd clapped, George and Charlie whooping from the front row. Ron grinned at them, clapping as well.

“I now introduce to you Mr. and Mr. Potter-Malfoy!” Kingsley declared. 

Harry and Draco still hadn’t separated, though their smiles and laughter were making it hard for them to kiss, and their magic was going a bit wild. The ivy on the pergola had started growing at a rather unnatural rate, spiraling towards the ceiling. But after a moment, the newly married men managed to calm themselves and stood, slightly apart with their hands still clasped, rings glinting. 

“I thought we were going with Malfoy-Potter,” Harry noted.

Draco shrugged. “I changed my mind, this way sounds better.”

Harry grinned at him. Draco smiled back. Ron rolled his eyes at them both.

“Alright you two,” he said, “There’s pictures and food to be had, don’t make me get between you.”

Draco scoffed, “I’d like to see you try. One day was entirely to long, I’m never letting Harry out of my sight again.”

Harry squeezed his hand, eyes soft. “I missed you too.”

Draco looked like his might kiss him again, so Ron recruited Hermione and they got them off the pergola and in the direction of the reception. As they were led away, Draco leaned over and stole a kiss regardless.

Ron shook his head, fondly, and let them be.

_THE END_

~>~>~>~<~<~<~

_Draw a line from your heart to mine_  
_And I’ll follow it home to you,_  
_Like a mimicry of Ariadne’s twine_ ,  
_So I can follow my promises through_. 

_Chain our souls, forever bound,_  
_Your heart right next to mine,_  
_It doesn’t matter, I’d be forever found,_  
_And that would be just fine._

_Bind me near you with crimson thread,_  
_Spun from our shared life blood,_  
_For away from you my soul feels dead,_  
_And every breath is ash and mud._

_Keep me close with spellwork untold,_  
_Let us never for a moment be apart,_  
_I’ll be with you as we grow old,_  
_And love you with all my heart._

_You have my thoughts, my very soul,_  
_So make me yours, I’ll make you mine,_  
_Without you I’m a half, not whole,_  
_So here’s the quill, now draw the line._

_We are meant to be, that much is true,_  
_Our destinies were always meant to intertwine,_  
_So take my heart, it always belonged to you,_  
_And draw a line from yours to mine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And there's the poem that started it all back in 2015. I wrote it for a now-ex and then it somehow birthed a rabid Drarry plot bunny, and here we are today.
> 
> Thanks to everyone for all the wonderful comments and support. Even in the three year period where I didn't update this story, those comments reminded me that someday I really wanted to update this fic. And man, I am so glad I did. Ciao for now!


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